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FANNY  HERSELF 


'She  loved  luxury.      She  smiled  and  flashed  at  the  hand- 
some old  priest  opposite  her." 

—Page  198 


FANNY 
HERSELF 


BY 

EDNA  FERBER 

AUTHOR  OF 

DAWN  O'HARA,  ROAST  BEEF  MEDIUM, 
EMMA  McCHESNEY  &  CO.,  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

J.  HENRY 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Made  m  the  United  State*  o(  America 


<€?^-<C<K.-rv-- 


^f6syi 


•  :  «    » 


t         c  •    •*     •        • 

•  .•c  c   c  c        • 


i 


Copyright,  1917,  hg 
Fbederick  a.  Stokes  CompanV 

Copyright,  1917,  by 
Tbb  Cbowell  Publishing  Company 

AU  Rights  Reserved 


Printed,  in  United  States  of  America 


TO 
WILIJAIM  ALLEN  WHITE 


SS95TG 


PREFACE 

It  has  become  the  fashion  among  novelists  to  intro- 
duce their  hero  in  knee  pants,  their  heroine  in  pina- 
fore and  pigtails.  Time  was  when  we  were  rushed 
up  to  a  stalwart  young  man  of  twenty-four,  who  was 
presented  as  the  pivot  about  whom  the  plot  would  re- 
volve. Now  we  are  led,  protesting,  up  to  a  grubby 
urchin  of  five  and  are  invited  to  watch  him  through 
twenty  years  of  intimate  minutiae.  In  extreme  cases 
we  have  been  obliged  to  witness  his  evolution  from 
swaddling  clothes  to  dresses,  from  dresses  to  shorts 
(he  is  so  often  English),  from  shorts  to  Etons. 

The  thrill  we  get  for  our  pains  is  when,  at  twenty- 
five,  he  jumps  over  the  traces  and  marries  the  young 
lady  we  met  in  her  cradle  on  page  two.  The  process 
is  known  as  a  psychological  study.  A  publisher's  note 
on  page  five  hundred  and  seventy-three  assures  us  that 
the  author  is  now  at  work  on  Volume  Two,  dealing  with 
the  hero's  adult  life.  A  third  volume  will  present  his 
pleasing  senility.  The  whole  is  known  as  a  trilogy. 
If  the  chief  character  is  of  the  other  sex  we  are  dragged 
through  her  dreamy  girlhood,  or  hoydenish.  We  see 
her  in  her  graduation  white,  in  her  bridal  finery.  By 
the  time  she  is  twenty  we  know  her  better  than  her 
mother  ever  wHl,  and  are  infinitely  more  bored  by  her. 

Yet  who  would  exchange  one  page  in  the  life  of  the 
boy,  David  Copperfield,  for  whole  chapters  dealing 
with  Trotwood  Copperfield,  the  man?  Who  would  re- 
linquish the  button-bursting  Peggotty  for  the  saintly 
Agnes?  And  that  other  David — he  of  the  sling^shot; 
one  could  not  love  him  so  well  in  his  psalm-singing  days 


PREFACE 

had  one  not  known  him  first  as  the  gallant,  dauntless 
vanquisher  of  giants.  As  for  Becky  Sharp,  with  her 
treachery,  her  cruelty,  her  vindicativeness,  perhaps  we 
could  better  have  understood  and  forgiven  her  had  we 
known  her  lonely  and  neglected  childhood,  with  the 
drunken  artist  father  and  her  mother,  the  French  opera 
girl. 

With  which  modest  preamble  you  are  asked  to  be 

patient  with  Miss  Fanny  Brandeis,  aged  thirteen.    Not 

only  mu«t  you  suffer  Fanny,  but  Fanny's  mother  as 

'\    well,  without  whom  there  could  be  no  understanding 

\    Fanny.     For  that  matter,  we  shouldn't  wonder  if  Mrs. 

,^     Brandeis  were  to  turn  out  the  heroine  in  the  end.    She 

L_is  that  kind  of  person. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"She  loved  luxury.     She  smiled  and  flashed  at  the 

handsome  old  priest  opposite  her"     .     .     Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

"  'Now,  Miss  Brandeis,  what's  the  trouble  with  the 

Haynes-Cooper    infants'   wear   department?'"     ,     146 

**Fanny's  hands  became  fists,  gripping  the  power  she 

craved.    'Then  I  shall  have  arrived.'  "  .     .     .     .     188 

"  *  You  nervy  little  devil,  you  V  ** SCO 


FANNY  HERSELF 


•  ,•» 


FANNY  HERSELF 


CHAPTER  ONE 

YOU  could  not  have  lived  a  week  in  Winnebago 
without  being  aware  of  Mrs.  Brandeis.  In  a 
town  of  ten  thousand,  where  every  one  was  a  personal- 
ity, from  Hen  Cody,  the  drayman,  in  blue  overalls 
(magically  transformed  on  Sunday  mornings  into  a 
suave  black-broadcloth  usher  at  the  Congregational 
Church),  to  A.  J.  Dawes,  who  owned  the  waterworks 
before  the  city  bought  it,  Mrs.  Brandeis  was  a  super- 
personality.  Winnebago  did  not  know  it.  Winnebago, 
buying  its  dolls,  and  china,  and  Battenberg  braid  and 
tinware  and  toys  of  Mrs.  Brandeis,  of  Brandeis'  Ba- 
zaar, realized  vaguely  that  here  was  some  one  different. 

When  you  entered  the  long,  cool,  narrow  store  on 
Ehn  Street,  Mrs.  Brandeis  herself  came  forward  to 
serve  you,  unless  she  already  was  busy  with  two  cus- 
tomers. There  were  two  clerks — three,  if  you  count 
jAloysius,  the  boy — ^but  to  Mrs.  Brandeis  belonged  the 
privilege  of  docketing  you  first.  If  you  happened  in 
during  a  moment  of  business  lull,  you  were  likely  to 
find  her  reading  in  the  left-hand  comer  at  the  front 
of  the  store,  near  the  shelf  where  were  ranged  the  dolls' 
heads,  the  pens,  the  pencils,  and  school  supplies. 

You  saw  a  sturdy,  well-set-up,  alert  woman,  of  the 
kind  that  looks  taller  than  she  really  is ;  a  woman  with 
a  long,  straight,  clever  nose  that  indexed  her  charac- 
ter, as  did  everything  about  her,  from  her  crisp,  vig- 
orousy  abundant  hair  to  the  way  she  came  down  hard 


2  FANNY   HERSELF 

on  her  i>eels  in  w«;ll^i??g.  She  was  what  might  be  called 
a  very  defirjte  person.  But  first  you  remarked  her 
eyes.  WDlybu  Cor- cede  that  eyes  can  be  piercing,  yet 
velvety?  Their  piercingness  was  a  mental  quality,  I 
suppose,  and  the  velvety  softness  a  physical  one.  One 
could  only  think,  somehow,  of  wild  pansies — ^the  brown 
kind.  If  Winnebago  had  taken  the  trouble  to  glance 
at  the  title  of  the  book  she  laid  face  down  on  the  pencil 
boxes  as  you  entered,  it  would  have  learned  that  the 
book  was  one  of  Balzac's,  or,  perhaps,  Zangwill's,  or 
Zola's.  She  never  could  overcome  that  habit  of  snatch-  > 
ing  a  chapter  here  and  there  during  dull  moments.  She 
was  too  tired  to  read  when  night  came. 

There  were  many  times  when  the  little  Wisconsin 
town  lay  broiling  in  the  August  sun,  or  locked  in  the 
January  drifts,  and  the  main  business  street  was  as 
silent  as  that  of  a  deserted  village.  But  more  often 
she  came  forward  to  you  from  the  rear  of  the  store, 
with  bits  of  excelsior  clinging  to  her  black  sateen  apron. 
You  knew  that  she  had  been  helping  Aloysius  as  he 
unpacked  a  consignment  of  chamber  sets  or  a  hogshead 
of  china  or  glassware,  chalking  each  piece  with  the 
price  mark  as  it  was  dug  from  its  nest  of  straw  and 
paper. 

"How  do  you  do !"  she  would  say.  "What  can  I  do 
for  you?"  And  in  that  moment  she  had  you  listed, 
indexed,  and  filed,  were  you  a  farmer  woman  in  a  black 
shawl  and  rusty  bonnet  with  a  faded  rose  bobbing 
grotesquely  atop  it,  or  one  of  the  patronizing  East 
End  set  who  came  to  Brandeis'  Bazaar  because  Mrs.  ^ 
Brandeis'  party  favors,  for  one  thing,  were  of  a  va- 
riety that  could  be  got  nowhere  else  this  side  of  Chi- 
cago. If,  after  greeting  you,  Mrs.  Brandeis  called, 
"Sadie!  Stockings!"  (supposing  stockings  were  your 
quest),  you  might  know  that  Mrs.  Brandeis  had 
weighed  you  and  found  you  wanting. 

There  had  always  been  a  store — at  least,  ever  since 


FANNY    HERSELF  8 

Fanny  could  remember.  She  often  thought  how  queer 
it  would  seem  to  have  to  buy  pins,  or  needles,  or  dishes, 
or  soap,  or  thread.  The  store  held  aU  these  things, 
and  many  more.  Just  to  glance  at  the  bewildering 
display  outside  gave  you  promise  of  the  variety  within. 
Winnebago  was  rather  ashamed  of  that  display.  It 
was  before  the  day  of  repression  in  decoration,  and  the 
two  benches  in  front  of  the  windows  overflowed  with 
lamps,  and  water  sets,  and  brooms,  and  boilers  and 
tinware  and  hampers.  Once  the  Winnebago  Courier 
had  had  a  sarcastic  editorial  about  what  they  called 
the  Oriental  bazaar  (that  was  after  the  editor,  Lem 
Davis,  had  bumped  his  shin  against  a  toy  cart  that 
protruded  unduly),  but  Mrs.  Brandeis  changed  noth- 
ing. She  knew  that  the  farmer  women  who  stood  out- 
side with  their  husbands  on  busy  Saturdays  would  not 
have  understood  repression  in  display,  but  they  did 
understand  the  tickets  that  marked  the  wares  in  plain 
figures — this  berry  set,  $1.59 ;  that  lamp,  $1.23.  They 
talked  it  over,  outside,  and  drifted  away,  and  came 
back,  and  entered,  and  bought. 

She  knew  when  to  be  old-fashioned,  did  Mrs.  Bran- 
deis, and  when  to  be  modem.  She  had  worn  the  first 
short  walking  skirt  in  Winnebago.  It  cleared  the 
ground  in  a  day  before  germs  were  discovered,  when 
women's  skirts  trailed  and  flounced  behind  them  in  a 
cloud  of  dust.  One  of  her  scandalized  neighbors  (Mrs. 
Nathan  Pereles,  it  was)  had  taken  her  aside  to  tell  her 
that  no  decent  woman  would  dress  that  way. 

"Next  year,"  said  Mrs.  Brandeis,  "when  you  are 
wearing  one,  I'U  remind  you  of  that."  And  she  did, 
■  too.  She  had  worn  shirtwaists  with  a  broad  "Gibson" 
shoulder  tuck,  when  other  Winnebago  women  were  still 
encased  in  linings  and  bodices.  Do  not  get  the  impres- 
sion that  she  stood  for  emancipation,  or  feminism,  or 
any  of  those  advanced  things.  They  had  scarcely  been 
touched  on  in  those  days.    She  was  just  an  extraordi- 


4  FANNY   HERSELF 

narily  alert  woman,  mentally  and  physically,  with  a 
shrewd  sense  of  values.  Molly  Brandeis  never  could 
set  a  table  without  forgetting  the  spoons,  or  the 
salt,  or  something,  but  she  could  add  a  double  col- 
umn of  figures  in  her  head  as  fast  as  her  eye  could 
travel. 

There  she  goes,  running  off  with  the  story,  as  we 
were  afraid  she  would.  Not  only  that,  she  is  using  up 
whole  pages  of  description  when  she  should  be  giving 
us  dialogue.  Prospective  readers,  running  their  eyes 
over  a  printed  page,  object  to  the  solid  block  formation 
of  the  descriptive  passage.  And  yet  it  is  fascinating 
to  weave  words  about  her,  as  it  is  fascinating  to  turn 
a  fine  diamond  this  way  and  that  in  the  sunlight,  to 
catch  its  prismatic  hues.  Besides,  you  want  to  know — 
do  you  not? — how  this  woman  who  reads  Balzac  should 
be  waiting  upon  you  in  a  little  general  store  in  Winne- 
bago, Wisconsin? 

In  the  first  place,  Ferdinand  Brandeis  had  been  a 
dreamer,  and  a  potential  poet,  which  is  bad  equipment 
for  success  in  the  business  of  general  merchandise. 
Four  times,  since  her  marriage,  Molly  Brandeis  had 
packed  her  household  goods,  bade  her  friends  good-by, 
and  with  her  two  children,  Fanny  and  Theodore,  had 
followed  her  husband  to  pastures  new.  A  heart-break- 
ing business,  that,  but  broadening.  She  knew  nothing 
of  the  art  of  buying  and  selling  at  the  time  of  her  mar- 
riage, but  as  the  years  went  by  she  learned  uncon- 
sciously the  things  one  should  not  do  in  business,  from 
watching  Ferdinand  Brandeis  do  them  all.  She  even 
suggested  this  change  and  that,  but  to  no  avail.  Ferdi- 
nand Brandeis  was  a  gentle  and  lovable  man  at  home ; 
a  testy,  quick-tempered  one  in  business. 

That  was  because  he  had  been  miscast  from  the  first, 
and  yet  had  played  one  part  too  long,  even  though  un- 
successfully, ever  to  learn  another.  He  did  not  make 
friends  with  the  genial  traveling  salesmen  who  breezed 


FANNY   HERSELF  S' 

in,  slapped  him  on  the  back,  offered  him  a  cigar,  in- 
quired after  his  health,  opened  their  sample  cases  and 
flirted  with  the  girl  clerks,  all  in  a  breath.  He  was  a 
man  who  talked  little,  listened  little,  learned  little.  He 
had  never  got  the  trick  of  turning  his  money  over 
quickly — that  trick  so  necessary  to  the  success  of  the 
small-town  business. 

So  it  was  that,  in  the  year  preceding  Ferdinand' 
Brandeis'  death,  there  came  often  to  the  store  a  cer- 
tain grim  visitor.     Herman  Walthers,  cashier  of  the  ~ 
First   National  Bank   of   Winnebago,   was   a  kindly-  »". 
enough,  shrewd,  small-town  banker,  but  to  Ferdinand 
Brandeis  and  his  wife  his  visits,  growing  more  and  more 
frequent,    typified    all    that    was    frightful,    presaged 
misery  and  despair.     He  would  drop  in  on  a  bright 
summer  morning,  perhaps,  with   a   cheerful  greeting. 
He  would  stand  for  a  moment  at  the  front  of  the  store, 
balancing  airily  from  toe  to  heel,  and  glancing  about 
from  shelf  to  bin  and  back  again  in  a  large,  speculative 
way.     Then  he  would  begin  to  walk  slowly  and  rumi- 
natively  about,  his  shrewd  little  German  eyes  apprais-  ''^' 
ing  the  stock.     He  would  hum  a  Httle  absent-minded  "^  ^^ 
tune  as  he  walked,  up  one  aisle  and  down  the  next  (there 
were  only  two),  picking  up  a  piece  of  china  there, 
turning  it  over  to  look  at  its  stamp,  holding  it  up  to 
the  light,  tapping  it  a  bit  with  his  knuckles,  and  put- 
ting it  down  carefully  before  going  musically  on  down 
the  aisle  to  the  water  sets,  the  lamps,  the  stockings,  the 
hardware,  the  toys.    And  so,  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
still  humming,  out  the  swinging  screen  door  and  into 
the  sunshine  of  Elm  Street,  leaving  gloom  and  fear  be- 
hind him. 

One  year  after  Molly  Brandeis  took  hold,  Herman 
Walthers'  visits  ceased,  and  in  two  years  he  used  to 
rise  to  greet  her  from  his  little  cubbyhole  when  she 
came  into  the  bank. 

Which  brings  us  to  the  plush  photograph  album.  The 


6  FANNY   HERSELF 

plush  photograph  album  is  a  concrete  example  of  what 
makes  business  failure  and  success.  More  than  that, 
its  brief  history  presents  a  complete  characterization 
of  Ferdinand  and  Molly  Brandeis. 

Ten  years  before,  Ferdinand  Brandeis  hsid  bought  a 
large  bill  of  Christmas  fancy-goods — celluloid  toilette 
sets,  leather  collar  boxes,  velvet  glove  cases.  Among 
the  lot  was  a  photograph  album  in  the  shape  of  a  huge 
acorn  done  in  lightning-struck  plush.  It  was  a  hideous 
thing,  and  expensive.  It  stood  on  a  brass  stand,  and 
its  leaves  were  edged  in  gilt,  and  its  color  was  a  nau- 
seous green  and  blue,  and  it  was  altogether  the  sort  of 
thing  to  grace  the  chill  and  funereal  best  room  in  a 
Wisconsin  farmhouse.  Ferdinand  Brandeis  marked  it 
at  six  dollars  and  stood  it  up  for  the  Christmas  trade. 
That  had  been  ten  years  before.  It  was  too  expensive, 
or  too  pretentious,  or  perhaps  even  too  horrible  for 
the  bucolic  purse.  At  any  rate,  it  had  been  taken  out, 
brushed,  dusted,  and  placed  on  its  stand  every  holiday 
season  for  ten  years.  On  the  day  after  Christmas  it 
was  always  there,  its  lightning-struck  plush  face 
staring  wildly  out  upon  the  ravaged  fancy-goods 
counter.  It  would  be  packed  in  its  box  again  and  con- 
signed to  its  long  summer's  sleep.  It  had  seen  three 
towns,  and  many  changes.  The  four  dollars  that  Ferdi- 
nand Brandeis  had  invested  in  it  still  remained  un- 
turned. 

One  snowy  day  in  November  (Ferdinand  Brandeis 
died  a  fortnight  later)  Mrs.  Brandeis,  entering  the 
store,  saw  two  women  standing  at  the  fancy-goods 
counter,  laughing  in  a  stifled  sort  of  way.  One  of 
them  was  bowing  elaborately  to  a  person  unseen.  Mrs. 
Brandeis  was  puzzled.  She  watched  them  for  a  mo- 
ment, interested.  One  of  the  women  was  known  to  her. 
She  came  up  to  them  and  put  her  question,  bluntly, 
though  her  quick  wits  had  already  given  her  a  suspicion 
of  the  truth. 


FANNY   HERSELF  7 

"What  are  you  bowing  to?" 

The  one  who  had  done  the  bowing  blushed  a  little, 
but  giggled  too,  as  she  said,  "I'm  greeting  my  old 
friend,  the  plush  album.  I've  seen  it  here  every  Christ- 
mas for  five  years." 

Ferdinand  Brandeis  died  suddenly  a  little  more  than 
a  week  later.     It  was  a  terrible  period,  and  one  that 
might   have   prostrated   a  less   resolute   and   balanced  i 
woman.     There  were  long-standing  debts,  not  to  speak 
of  the  entire  stock  of  holiday  goods  to  be  paid  for. 
The  day  after  the  funeral  Winnebago  got  a  shock. 
The  Brandeis  house  was  besieged  by  condoling  callers. 
Every   member   of  the   little   Jewish   congregation   of 
Winnebago   came,    of   course,    as   they   had   come   be- 
fore the  funeral.     Those  who  had  not  brought  cakes, 
and    salads,    and    meats,    and    pies,    brought    them, 
now,  as  was  the  invariable  custom  in  time  of  mourn- j 
ing. 

Others  of  the  townspeople  called,  too;  men  and 
women  who  had  known  and  respected  Ferdinand  Bran- 
deis. And  the  shock  they  got  was  this:  Mrs.  Bran- 
deis was  out.  Any  one  could  have  told  you  that  she 
should  have  been  sitting  at  home  in  a  darkened  room, 
wearing  a  black  gown,  clasping  Fanny  and  Theodore 
to  her,  and  holding  a  black-bordered  handkerchief  at 
intervals  to  her  reddened  eyes.  And  that  is  what  she 
really  wanted  to  do,  for  she  had  loved  her  husband,  and 
she  respected  the  conventions.  What  she  did  was  to 
put  on  a  white  shirtwaist  and  a  black  skirt  at  seven 
o'clock  the  morning  after  the  funeral. 

The  store  had  been  closed  the  day  before.  She  en- 
tered it  at  seven  forty-five,  as  Aloysius  was  sweeping 
out  with  wet  sawdust  and  a  languid  broom.  The  extra 
force  of  holiday  clerks  straggled  in,  uncertainly,  at 
eight  or  after,  expecting  an  hour  or  two  of  undisci- 
plined gossip.  At  eight-ten  Molly  Brandeis  walked 
briskly  up  to  the  plush  photograph  album,  whisked 


8  FANNY   HERSELF 

off  its  six-dollar  price  mark,  and  stuck  in  its  place  a 
neatly  printed  card  bearing  these  figures:  "To-day — • 
79c!"  The  plush  album  went  home  in  a  farmer's 
wagon  that  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  TWO 

RIGHT  here  there  should  be  something  said  about 
Fanny  Brandeis.  And  yet,  each  time  I  turn  to  j 
her  I  find  her  mother  plucking  at  my  sleeve.  There 
comes  to  my  mind  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Brandeis  turn- 
ing down  Norris  Street  at  quarter  to  eight  every  morn- 
ing, her  walk  almost  a  march,  so  firm  and  measured  it 
was,  her  head  high,  her  chin  thrust  forward  a  little, 
as  a  fighter  walks,  but  not  pugnaciously;  her  short 
gray  skirt  clearing  the  ground,  her  shoulders  almost 
consciously  squared.  Other  Winnebago  women  were 
just  tying  up  their  daughters'  pigtails  for  school,  or 
sweeping  the  front  porch,  or  watering  the  hanging 
baskets.  Norris  Street  residents  got  into  the  habit  of  \ 
timing  themselves  by  Mrs.  Brandeis.  When  she  marched  ^ 
by  at  seven  forty-five  they  hurried  a  little  with  the 
tying  of  the  hair  bow,  as  they  glanced  out  of  the  win- 
dow. When  she  came  by  again,  a  little  before  twelve, 
for  her  hasty  dinner,  they  turned  up  the  fire  under  the 
potatoes  and  stirred  the  flour  thickening  for  the  gravy. 
Mrs.  Brandeis  had  soon  learned  that  Fanny  and 
Theodore  could  manage  their  own  school  toilettes,  with,  - 
perhaps,  some  speeding  up  on  the  part  of  Mattie,  the 
servant  girl.  But  it  needed  her  keen  brown  eye  to  de- 
tect comers  that  Aloysius  had  neglected  to  sweep  out 
with  wet  sawdust,  and  her  presence  to  make  sure  that 
the  counter  covers  were  taken  off  and  folded,  the  out- 
side show  dusted  and  arranged,  the  windows  washed, 
the  whole  store  shining  and  ready  for  business  by  eight 
o'clock.  So  Fanny  had  even  learned  to  do  her  own 
tight,  shiny,  black,   shoulder-length  curls,  which  she 

.9. 


10  FANNY.   HERSELF 

tied  back  with  a  black  bow.  They  were  wet,  meek,  and 
tractable  curls  at  eight  in  the  morning.  By  the  time 
school  was  out  at  four  they  were  as  wildly  unruly  as 
if  charged  with  electric  currents — which  they  really 
,  were,  when  you  consider  the  little  dynamo  that  wore 
"  them. 
t  Mrs.  Brandeis  took  a  scant  half  hour  to  walk  the  six 
blocks  between  the  store  and  the  house,  to  snatch  a 
hurried  dinner,  and  traverse  the  distance  to  the  store 
again.  It  was  a  program  that  would  have  kiUed  a 
woman  less  magnificently  healthy  and  determined.  She 
seemed  to  thrive  on  it,  and  she  kept  her  figure  and  her 
wit  when  other  women  of  her  age  grew  dull,  and  heavy, 
and  ineffectual.  On  summer  days  the  little  town  often 
lay  shimmering  in  the  heat,  the  yellow  road  glaring 
in  it,  the  red  bricks  of  the  high  school  reflecting  it  in 
waves,  the  very  pine  knots  in  the  sidewalks  gummy  and 
resinous  with  heat,  and  sending  up  a  pungent  smell  that 
was  of  the  woods,  and  yet  stifling.  She  must  have  felt 
an  almost  irresistible  temptation  to  sit  for  a  moment 
on  the  cool,  shady  front  porch,  with  its  green-painted 
flower  boxes,  its  hanging  fern  baskets  and  the  catalpa 
tree  looking  boskily  down  upon  it. 

But  she  never  did.  She  had  an  almost  savage  energy 
and  determination.  The  unpaid  debts  were  ever  ahead 
of  her;  there  were  the  children  to  be  dressed  and  sent 
to  school ;  there  was  the  household  to  be  kept  up ;  there 
"  were  Theodore's  violin  lessons  that  must  not  be  neg- 
lected— not  after  what  Professor  Bauer  had  said  about 
him. 

You  may  think  that  undue  stress  is  being  laid  upon 
^-  this  driving  force  in  her,  upon  this  business  ability. 
I  But  remember  that  this  was  fifteen  years  or  more  ago, 
I  before  women  had  invaded  the  world  of  business  by  the 
I  thousands,  to  take  their  place,  side  by  side,  salary  for 
"  salary,  with  men.  Oh,  there  were  plenty  of  women 
wage    earners    in    Winnebago,    as    elsewhere;    clerks. 


FANNY   HERSELF  11 

stenographers,  school  teachers,  bookkeepers.  The  pa- 
per mills  were  full  of  girls,  and  the  canning  factory 
too.  But  here  was  a  woman  gently  bred,  untrained 
in  business,  left  widowed  with  two  children  at  thirty- 
eight,  and  worse  than  penniless — in  debt. 

And  that  was  not  all.  As  Ferdinand  Brandeis'  wife 
she  had  occupied  a  certain  social  position  in  the  little 
Jewish  community  of  Winnebago.  True,  they  had 
never  been  moneyed,  while  the  others  of  her  own  faith 
in  the  little  town  were  wealthy,  and  somewhat  purse- 
proud.  They  had  carriages,  most  of  them,  with  two 
handsome  horses,  and  their  houses  were  spacious  and 
veranda-encircled,  and  set  in  shady  lawns.  When  the 
Brandeis  family  came  to  Winnebago  five  years  before, 
these  people  had  waited,  cautiously,  and  investigated, 
and  then  had  called.  They  were  of  a  type  to  be  found 
in  every  small  town;  prosperous,  conservative,  con- 
structive citizens,  clannish,  but  not  so  much  so  as  their 
city  cousins,  mingling  socially  with  their  Gentile  neigh- 
bors, living  well,  spending  their  money  freely,  taking  a 
vast  pride  in  the  education  of  their  children.  But  here 
was  Molly  Brandeis,  a  Jewess,  setting  out  to  earn  her 
living  in  business,  like  a  man.  It  was  a  thing  to  stir 
Congregation  Emanu-el  to  its  depths.  Jewish  women,  )\ 
they  would  teU  you,  did  not  work  thus.  Their  t; 
husbands  worked  for  them,  or  their  sons,  or  their  | 
brothers.  V-     '.  ^^  < ei  ^^ 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Brandeis,  when  she 
heard  of  it.     "I  seem  to  remember  a  Jewess  named 
Ruth  who  was  left  widowed,  and  who  gleaned  in  the   p 
fields  for  her  living,  and  yet  the  neighbors  didn't  talk.  4 
For  that  matter,  she  seems  to  be  pretty  well  thought 
of,  to  this  day." 

But  there  is  no  denying  that  she  lost  caste  among 
her  own  people.  Custom  and  training  are  difficult  to 
overcome.  But  Molly  Brandeis  was  too  deep  in  her 
own  afi^airs  to  care.     That  Christmas  season  following 


12  FANNX   HERSELF 

hef  husband's  death  was  a  ghastly  time,  and  yet  a 
grimly  wonderful  one,  for  it  applied  the  acid  test  to 
Molly  Brandeis  and  showed  her  up  pure  gold. 

The  first  week  in  January  she,  with  Sadie  and  Pearl, 
the  two  clerks,  and  Aloysius,  the  boy,  took  inventory. 
It  was  a  terrifying  thing,  that  process  of  casting  up 
accounts.  It  showed  with  such  starkness  how  hideously 
the  Brandeis  ledger  sagged  on  the  wrong  side.  The 
three  women  and  the  boy  worked  with  a  sort  of  dogged 
cheerfulness  at  it,  counting,  marking,  dusting,  washing. 
They  found  shelves  full  of  forgotten  stock,  dust-cov- 
ered and  profitless.  They  found  many  articles  of  what 
is  known  as  hard  stock,  akin  to  the  plush  album;  glass 
and  plated  condiment  casters  for  the  dining  table,  in 
a  day  when  individual  salts  and  separate  vinegar  cruets  | 
were  already  the  thing ;  lamps  with  straight  wicks  when ' 
round  wicks  were  in  demand.  i 

They  scoured  shelves,  removed  the  grime  of  years 
from  boxes,  washed  whole  battalions  of  chamber  sets, 
bathed  piles  of  plates,  and  bins  of  cups  and  saucers. 
It  was  a  dirty,  back-breaking  job,  that  ruined  the  fin- 
ger nails,  tried  the  disposition,  and  caked  the  throat 
with  dust.  Besides,  the  store  was  stove-heated  and, 
near  the  front  door,  uncomfortably  cold.  The  women 
wore  little  shoulder  shawls  pinned  over  their  waists,  for 
warmth,  and  all  four,  including  Aloysius,  sniffled  for 
weeks  afterward. 

That  inventory  developed  a  new,  grim  line  around 
Mrs.  Brandeis'  mouth,  and  carved  another  at  the  cor- 
ner of  each  eye.  After  it  was  over  she  washed  her  hair, 
steamed  her  face  over  a  bowl  of  hot  water,  packed  two 
valises,  left  minute  and  masterful  instructions  with 
Mattie  as  to  the  household,  and  with  Sadie  and  Pearl 
as  to  the  store,  and  was  off  to  Chicago  on  her  first  buy- 
ing trip.  She  took  Fanny  with  her,  as  ballast.  It  was 
a  trial  at  which  many  men  would  have  quailed.  On 
the  shrewdness  and  judgment  of  that  buying  trip  de- 


FANNY   HERSELF  IS 

pended    the    future    of   Brandeis'    Bazaar,    and   Mrs. 
Brandeis,  and  Fanny,  and  Theodore. 

Mrs.  Brandeis  had  accompanied  her  husband  on 
many  of  his  trips  to  Chicago.  She  had  even  gone  with 
him  occasionally  to  the  wholesale  houses  around  La 
Salle  Street,  and  Madison,  and  Fifth  Avenue,  but  she 
had  never  bought  a  dollar's  worth  herself.  She  saw 
that  he  bought  slowly,  cautiously,  and  without  im- 
agination. She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  buy 
quickly,  intuitively.  She  knew  slightly  some  of  the 
salesmen  in  the  wholesale  houses.  They  had  often  made 
presents  to  her  of  a  vase,  a  pocketbook,  a  handker- 
chief, or  some  such  trifle,  which  she  accepted  re- 
luctantly, when  at  all.  She  was  thankful  now  for  these 
visits.  She  found  herself  remembering  many  details 
of  them.  She  made  up  her  mind,  with  a  canny  know- 
ingness,  that  there  should  be  no  presents  this  time,  no 
theater  invitations,  no  lunches  or  dinners.  This  was 
business,  she  told  herself;  more  than  business — it  was 
grim  war. 

They  still  tell  of  that  trip,  sometimes,  when  buyers 
and  jobbers  and  wholesale  men  get  together.  Don't 
imagine  that  she  came  to  be  a  woman  captain  of 
finance.  Don't  think  that  we  are  to  see  her  at  the  head 
of  a  magnificent  business  establishment,  with  buyers 
and  department  heads  below  her,  and  a  private  office 
done  up  in  mahogany,  and  stenographers  and  secre- 
taries. No,  she  was  Mrs.  Brandeis,  of  Brandeis'  Ba- 
zaar, to  the  end.  The  bills  she  bought  were  ridicu- 
lously small,  I  suppose,  and  the  tricks  she  turned  on 
that  first  trip  were  pitiful,  perhaps.  But  they  were 
magnificent  too,  in  their  way.  I  am  even  bold  enough 
to  think  that  she  might  have  made  business  history,' 
that  plucky  woman,  if  she  had  had  an  earlier  start, 
and  if  she  had  not,  to  the  very  end,  had  a  pack  of 
unmanageable  handicaps  yelping  at  her  heels,  pulling 
at  her  skirts. 


U  FANNY   HERSELF. 

It  was  only  a  six-hour  trip  to  Chicago.  Fanny 
Brandeis'  eyes,  big  enough  at  any  time,  were  surely 
twice  their  size  during  the  entire  journey  of  two  hun- 
dred miles  or  more.  They  were  to  have  lunch  on  the 
train !  They  were  to  stop  at  an  hotel !  They  were  to 
go  to  the  theater!  She  would  have  lain  back  against 
the  red  plush  seat  of  the  car,  in  a  swoon  of  joy,  if 
there  had  not  been  so  much  to  see  in  the  car  itself,  and 
through  the  car  window. 

\  "We'll  have  something  for  lunch,"  said  Mrs.  Bran- 
deis when  they  were  seated  in  the  dining  car,  "that  we 
never  have  at  home,  shall  we.?" 

'^Oh,  yes !"  replied  Fanny  in  a  whisper  of  excitement. 
"Something — something  queer,  and  different,  and  not 
so  very  healthy !" 

They  had  oysters  ( a  New  Yorker  would  have  sniffed 
at  them),  and  chicken  potpie,  and  asparagus,  and  ice 
cream.  If  that  doesn't  prove  Mrs.  Brandeis  was  game, 
I  should  like  to  know  what  could!  They  stopped  at 
the  Windsor-Clifton,  because  it  was  quieter  and  less 
expensive  than  the  Palmer  House,  though  quite  as  full 
of  red  plush  and  walnut.  Besides,  she  had  stopped  at 
the  Palmer  House  with  her  husband,  and  she  knew  how 
buyers  were  likely  to  be  besieged  by  eager  salesmen 
with  cards,  and  with  tempting  lines  of  goods  spread 
knowingly  in  the  various  sample-rooms. 

Fanny  Brandeis  was  thirteen,  and  emotional,  and 
incredibly  receptive  and  alive.  It  is  impossible  to  teU 
what  she  learned  during  that  Chicago  trip,  it  was  so 
crowded,  so  wonderful.  She  went  with  her  mother  to 
the  wholesale  houses  and  heard  and  saw  and,  uncon- 
sciously, remembered.  When  she  became  fatigued  with 
the  close  air  of  the  dim  showrooms,  with  their  endless 
aisles  piled  with  every  sort  of  ware,  she  would  sit  on  a 
chair  in  some  obscure  corner,  watching  those  sleek, 
over-lunched,  genial-looking  salesmen  who  were  chew- 
ing their  cigars  somewhat  wildly  when  Mrs.  Brandeis 


FANNY   HERSELF  15 

finished  with  them.  Sometimes  she  did  not  accompany 
her  mother,  but  lay  in  bed,  deliciously,  until  the  middle 
of  the  morning,  then  dressed,  and  chatted  with  the 
obliging  Irish  chamber  maid,  and  read  until  her  mother 
came  for  her  at  noon. 

Everything  she  did  was  a  delightful  adventure; 
everything  she  saw  had  the  tang  of  novelty.  Fanny 
Brandeis  was  to  see  much  that  was  beautiful  and  rare 
in  her  full  lifetime,  but  she  never  again,  perhaps,  got 
quite  the  thrill  that  those  ugly,  dim,  red-carpeted,  gas- 
lighted  hotel  corridors  gave  her,  or  the  grim  bedroom, 
with  its  walnut  furniture  and  its  Nottingham  curtains. 
As  for  the  Chicago  streets  themselves,  with  their 
perilous  comers  (there  were  no  czars  in  blue  to  regu- 
late traffic  in  those  days),  older  and  more  sophisticated 
pedestrians  experienced  various  emotions  while  nego- 
tiating the  comer  of  State  and  Madison. 

That  buying  trip  lasted  ten  days.  It  was  a  racking 
business,  physically  and  mentally.  There  were  the 
hours  of  tramping  up  one  aisle  and  down  the  other  in 
the  big  wholesale  lofts.  But  that  brought  bodily  fa- 
tigue only.  It  was  the  mental  strain  that  left  Mrs. 
Brandeis  spent  and  limp  at  the  end  of  the  day.  Was 
she  buying  wisely.'*  Was  she  over-buying?  What  did 
she  know  about  buying,  anyway  ?  She  would  come  back 
to  her  hotel  at  six,  sometimes  so  exhausted  that  the 
dining-room  and  dinner  were  unthinkable.  At  such 
times  they  would  have  dinner  in  their  room — another 
delicious  adventure  for  Fanny.  She  would  try  to  tempt 
the  fagged  woman  on  the  bed  with  bits  of  this  or  that 
from  one  of  the  many  dishes  that  dotted  the  dinner 
tray.  But  MoUy  Brandeis,  harrowed  in  spirit  and 
numbed  in  body,  was  too  spent  to  eat. 

But  that  was  not  always  the  case.     There  was  that 
unforgettable  night  when  they  went  to  see  Bernhardt 
the  divine.     Fanny  spent  the  entire  morning  following    ^ 
standing  before  the   bedroom  mirror,  with  her  hair    ^ 


16  FANNY   HERSELF 

pulled  out  in  a  wild  fluff  in  front,  her  mother's  old  mar- 
ten-fur scarf  high  and  choky  around  her  neck,  trying 
to  smile  that  slow,  sad,  poignant,  tear-compelling  smile ; 
but  she  had  to  give  it  up,  clever  mimic  though  she  was. 
She  only  succeeded  in  looking  as  though  a  pin  were 
sticking  her  somewhere.  Besides,  Fanny's  own  smile 
was  a  quick,  broad,  flashing  grin,  with  a  generous  glint 
of  white  teeth  in  it,  and  she  always  forgot  about  being 
exquisitely  wistful  over  it  until  it  was  too  late. 

I  wonder  if  the  story  of  the  china  religious  figures 
will  give  a  wrong  impression  of  Mrs.  Brandeis.  Per- 
haps not,  if  you  will  only  remember  this  woman's  white- 
lipped  determination  to  wrest  a  livelihood  from  the 
world,  for  her  children  and  herself.  They  had  been 
in  Chicago  a  week,  and  she  was  buying  at  Bander  & 
Peck's.  Now,  Bauder  &  Peck,  importers,  are  known 
the  world  over.  It  is  doubtful  if  there  is  one  of  you 
who  has  not  been  supplied,  indirectly,  with  some  im- 
ported bit  of  china  or  glassware,  with  French 
opera  glasses  or  cunning  toys  and  dolls,  from  the  great 
New  York  and  Chicago  showrooms  of  that  com- 
pany. 

Young  Bauder  himself  was  waiting  on  Mrs.  Bran- 

I  'deis,  and  he  was  frowning  because  he  hated  to  sell 
women.  Young  Bauder  was  being  broken  into  the  Chi- 
cago end  of  the  business,  and  he  was  not  taking  grace- 
fully to  the  process. 

At  the  end  of  a  long  aisle,  on  an  obscure  shelf  in  a 
dim  corner,  Molly  Brandeis'  sharp  eyes  espied  a  motley 
collection  of  dusty,  grimy  china  figures  of  the  kind  one 
sees  on  the  mantel  in  the  parlor  of  the  small-town 
Catholic    home.      Winnebago's    population    was    two- 

;  thirds  Catholic,  German  and  Irish,  and  very  devout. 

"•  Mrs.  Brandeis  stopped  short.  "How  much  for  that 
lot?"  She  pointed  to  the  shelf.  Young  Bander's  gaze 
followed  hers,  puzzled.  The  figures  were  from  five 
inches  to  a  foot  high,  in  crude,  effective  blues,  and  gold, 


FANNY   HERSELF  17 

and  crimson,  and  white.  All  the  saints  were  there  in 
assorted  sizes,  the  Piet^,  the  cradle  in  the  manger. 
There  were  probably  two  hundred  or  more  of  the  little 
figures. 

"Oh,  those!"  said  yovmg  Bauder  vaguely.  "You 
don't  want  that  stuff.  Now,  about  that  Limoges  china. 
As  I  said,  I  can  make  you  a  special  price  on  it  if  you 
carry  it  as  an  open-stock  pattern.    You'll  find " 

"How  much  for  that  lot?"  repeated  Mrs.  Brandeis.      ' 

"Those  are  left-over  samples,  Mrs.  Brandeis.  Last 
year's  stuff.  They're  all  dirty.  I'd  forgotten  they 
were  there." 

"How  much  for  the  lot?"  said  Mrs.  Brandeis,  pleas- 
antly, for  the  third  time. 

"I  really  don't  know.  Three  hundred,  I  should  say. 
But ^" 

"I'll  give  you  two  hundred,"  ventured  Mrs.  Brandeis, 
her  heart  in  her  mouth  and  her  mouth  very  firm. 

"Oh,  come  now,  Mrs.  Brandeis!  Bauder  &  Peck 
don't  do  business  that  way,  you  know.  We'd  really 
rather  not  sell  them  at  all.  The  things  aren't  worth 
much  to  us,  or  to  you,  for  that  matter.  But  three 
hundred " 

"Two  hundred,"  repeated  Mrs.  Brandeis,  "or  I  can- 
cel my  order,  including  the  Limoges.  I  want  those  fig- 
ures." ' 

And  she  got  them.  Which  isn't  the  point  of  the 
story.  The  holy  figures  were  fine  examples  of  foreign 
workmanship,  their  colors,  beneath  the  coating  of  dust, 
as  brilliant  and  fadeless  as  those  found  in  the  churches 
of  Europe.  They  reached  Winnebago  duly,  packed  in 
straw  and  paper,  stiU  dusty  and  shelf-worn.  Mrs. 
Brandeis  and  Sadie  and  Pearl  sat  on  up-ended  boxes 
at  the  rear  of  the  store,  in  the  big  bam-like  room  in 
which  newly  arrived  goods  were  unpacked.  As  Aloy- 
sius  dived  deep  into  the  crate  and  brought  up  figure 
after  figure,  the  three  women  plunged  them  into  warm 


18  FANNY   HERSELF 

and  soapy  water  and  proceeded  to  bathe  and  scour  th<? 
entire  school  of  saints,  angels,  and  cherubim.  They 
came  out  brilliantly  fresh  and  rosy. 

I  All  the  Irish  ingenuity  and  artistry  in  Aloysius  came 
to  the  surface  as  he  dived  again  and  again  into  the 
great  barrel  and  brought  up  the  glittering  pieces. 

"It'll  make  an  elegant  window,"  he  gasped  from  the 
depths  of  the  hay,  his  lean,  lengthy  frame  jack-knifed 
over  the  edge.  "And  cheap."  His  shrewd  wit  had  long 
ago  divined  the  store's  price  mark.  "If  Father  Fitz-  . 
patrick  steps  by  in  the  forenoon  I'll  bet  they'U  be  gone  U 
before  nighttime  to-morrow.  You'll  be  letting  me  do 
the  trim,  Mrs.  Brandeis?" 

He  came  back  that  evening  to  do  it,  and  he  threw 
his  whole  soul  into  it,  which,  considering  his  ancestry 
;  and  temperament,  was  very  high  voltage  for  one  small- 
town store  window.  He  covered  the  floor  of  the  win- 
dow with  black  crepe  paper,  and  hung  it  in  long  folds, 
like  a  curtain,  against  the  rear  wall.  The  gilt  of  the 
scepters,  and  halos,  and  capes  showed  up  dazzlingly 
against  this  background.  The  scarlets,  and  pinks,  and 
blues,  and  whites  of  the  robes  appeared  doubly  bright. 
The  whole  made  a  picture  that  struck  and  held  you  by 
its  vividness  and  contrast. 

Father  Fitzpatrick,  very  tall  and  straight,  and  hand- 
some, with  his  iron-gray  hair  and  his  cheeks  pink  as  a 
girl's,  did  step  by  next  morning  on  his  way  to  the  post- 
office.  It  was  whispered  that  in  his  youth  Father  Fitz- 
patrick had  been  an  actor,  and  that  he  had  deserted  the  j 
footlights  for  the  altar  lights  because  of  a  disappoint-  ^ 
ment.  The  drama's  loss  was  the  Church's  gain.  You 
should  have  heard  him  on  Sunday  morning,  now  flaying 
them,  now  swaying  them!  He  still  had  the  actor's 
flexible  voice,  vibrant,  tremulous,  or  strident,  at  wiU. 
And  no  amount  of  fasting  or  praying  had  ever  dimmed 
that  certain  something  in  his  eye — the  something 
which  makes  the  matinee  idol. 


fanny;  herself  19 

Not  only  did  he  step  by  now ;  he  turned,  came  back ; 
stopped  before  the  window.    Then  he  entered. 

"Madam,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Brandeis,  "you'll  proba- 
bly save  more  souls  with  your  window  display  than  I 
could  in  a  month  of  hell-fire  sermons."  He  raised  his 
hand.  "You  have  the  sanction  of  the  Church."  Which 
was  the  beginning  of  a  queer  friendship  between  the 
Roman  Catholic  priest  and  the  Jewess  shopkeeper  that  •  j 
lasted  as  long  as  Molly  Brandeis  lived. 

By  noon  it  seemed  that  the  entire  population  of  Win- 
nebago had  turned  devout.  The  figures,  a  tremendous 
bargain,  though  sold  at  a  high  profit,  seemed  to  melt 
away  from  the  counter  that  held  them. 

By  three  o'clock,  "Only  one  to  a  customer!"  an- 
nounced Mrs.  Brandeis.  By  the  middle  of  the  week 
the  window  itself  was  ravished  of  its  show.  By  the  end 
of  the  week  there  remained  only  a  handful  of  the  duller 
and  less  desirable  pieces — the  minor  saints,  so  to  speak. 
Saturday  night  Mrs.  Brandeis  did  a  little  figuring  on 
paper.  The  lot  had  cost  her  two  hundred  dollars.  She 
had  sold  for  six  hundred.  Two  from  six  leaves  four. 
Four  hundred  dollars!  She  repeated  it  to  herself, 
quietly.  Her  mind  leaped  back  to  the  plush  photo- 
graph album,  then  to  young  Bauder  and  his  cool  con- 
tempt. And  there  stole  over  her  that  warm,  com- 
fortable glow  born  of  reassurance  and  triumph.  Four 
hundred  dollars.  Not  much  in  these  days  of  big 
business.  We  said,  you  will  remember,  that  it  was  a 
pitiful  enough  little  trick  she  turned  to  make  it,  though 
an  honest  one.  And — in  the  face  of  disapproval — a 
rather  -magnificent  one  too.  For  it  gave  to  Molly 
Brandeis  that  precious  quality,  self-confidence,  out  oil 
which  is  born  success. 


. 


CHAPTER  THREE 

\ 

BY  spring  Mrs.  Brandeis  had  the  fanner  women 
coming  to  her  for  their  threshing  dishes  and 
kitchenware,  and  the  West  End  Culture  Club  for  their 
p  whist  prizes.  She  seemed  to  realize  that  the  days  of 
the  general  store  were  numbered,  and  she  set  about 
making  hers  a  novelty  store.  There  was  something 
terrible  about  the  earnestness  with  which  she  stuck  to 
business.  She  was  not  more  than  thirty-eight  at  this 
time,  intelligent,  healthy,  fun-loving.  But  she  stayed 
at  it  all  day.  She  listened  and  chatted  to  every  one, 
and  learned  much.  There  was  about  her  that  human 
"quality  that  invites  confidence.  ' 

She  made  friends  by  the  hundreds,  and  friends  are 
a  business  asset.  Those  blithe,  dressy,  and  smooth- 
spoken gentlemen  known  as  traveling  men  used  to  tell 
her  their  troubles,  perched  on  a  stool  near  the  stove, 
and  show  her  the  picture  of  their  girl  in  the  back  of 
their  watch,  and  asked  her  to  dinner  at  the  Haley 
House.  She  listened  to  their  tale  of  woe,  and  advised 
them;  she  admired  the  picture  of  the  girl,  and  gave 
^ome  wholesome  counsel  on  the  subject  of  traveling, 
men's  lonely  wives;  but  she  never  went  to  dinner  ati 
the  Haley  House. 

It  had  not  taken  these  debonair  young  men  long  to 
learn  that  there  was  a  woman  buyer  who  bought 
quickly,  decisively,  and  intelligently,  and  that  she  al- 
ways demanded  a  duplicate  slip.  Even  the  most  un- 
scrupulous could  not  stuff  an  order  of  hers,  and  when 
it  came  to  dating  she  gave  no  quarter.  Though  they 
Wore  clothes  that  were  two  leaps  ahead  of  the  styles 

i20 


FANNY   HERSELF  21 

worn  by  the  Winnebago  young  men — their  straw  sailors 
were  likely  to  be  saw-edged  when  the  local  edges  were 
smooth,  and  their  coats  were  more  flaring,  or  their 
trousers  wider  than  the  coats  and  trousers  of  the  Win- 
nebago boys — they  were  not,  for  the  most  part,  the 
gay  dogs  that  Winnebago's  fancy  painted  them.  Many 
of  them  were  very  lonely  married  men  who  missed  their 
wives  and  babies,  and  loathed  the  cuspidored  discom- 
fort of  the  small-town  hotel  lobby.  They  appreciated 
Mrs.  Brandeis'  good-natured  sympathy,  and  gave  her 
the  long  end  of  a  deal  when  they  could.  It  was  Sam 
Kiser  who  had  begged  her  to  listen  to  his  advice  to  put 
in  Battenberg  patterns  and  braid,  long  before  the  Bat- 
tenberg  epidemic  had  become  widespread  and  virulent. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Mrs.  Brandeis,"  he  begged,  al- 
most tearfully.  *'You're  a  smart  woman.  Don't  let 
this  get  by  you.  You  know  that  I  know  that  a  sales- 
man would  have  as  much  chance  to  sell  you  a  gold 
brick  as  to  sell  old  John  D.  Rockefeller  a  gallon  of 
oil." 

Mrs.  Brandeis  eyed  his  samples  coldly.  "But  it  looks 
so  unattractive.  And  the  average  person  has  no  im- 
agination. A  bolt  of  white  braid  and  a  handful  of 
buttons — they  wouldn't  get  a  mental  picture  of  the 
completed  piece.     Now,  embroidery  silk " 

"Then  give  'em  a  real  picture!"  interrupted  Sam. 
"Work  up  one  of  these  water-lily  pattern  table  covers. 
Use  No.  100  braid  and  the  smallest  buttons.  Stick  it 
in  the  window  and  they'll  tear  their  hair  to  get  pat- 
terns." 

She  did  it,  taking  turns  with  Pearl  and  Sadie  at 
weaving  the  great,  lacy  square  during  dull  moments. 
When  it  was  finished  they  placed  it  in  the  window, 
where  it  lay  like  frosted  lace,  exquisitely  graceful  and 
delicate,  with  its  tracery  of  curling  petals  and  feathery 
fern  sprays.  Winnebago  gazed  and  was  bitten  by  the 
Battenberg  bug.     It  wound  itself  up  in  a  network  of 


22  FANNY   HERSELF 

Battenberg  braid,  in  all  the  numbers.  It  bought  but- 
tons of  every  size;  it  stitched  away  at  Battenberg 
covers,  doilies,  bedspreads,  blouses,  curtains.  Batten- 
berg tumbled,  foamed,  cascaded  over  Winnebago's  front 
porches  all  that  summer.  Listening  to  Sam  Kiser  had 
done  it. 

She  listened  to  the  farmer  women  too,  and  to  the 
mill  girls,  and  to  the  scant  and  precious  pearls  that 
/  dropped  from  the  lips  of  the  East  End  society  section. 
There  was  something  about  her  brown  eyes  and  her 
straight,  sensible  nose  that  reassured  them  so  that  few 
suspected  the  mischievous  in  her.  For  she  was  mis- 
chievous. If  she  had  not  been  I  think  she  could  not 
have  stood  the  drudgery,  and  the  heartbreaks,  and  the 
struggle,  and  the  terrific  manual  labor. 

She  used  to  guy  people,  gently,  and  they  never 
guessed  it.  Mrs.  G.  Manville  Smith,  for  example, 
never  dreamed  of  the  joy  that  her  patronage  brought 
Molly  Brandeis,  who  waited  on  her  so  demurely. 
Mrs.  G.  Manville  Smith  (nee  Finnegan)  scorned  the 
Winnebago  shops,  and  was  said  to  send  to  Chicago  for 
her  hairpins.  It  was  known  that  her  household  was 
run  on  the  most  niggardly  basis,  however,  and  she 
short-rationed  her  two  maids  outrageously.  It  was 
said  that  she  could  serve  less  real  food  on  more  real 
lace  doilies  than  any  other  housekeeper  in  Winnebago. 
Now,  Mrs.  Brandeis  sold  Scourine  two  cents  cheaper 
than  the  grocery  stores,  using  it  as  an  advertisement 
to  attract  housewives,  and  making  no  profit  on  the 
article  itself.  Mrs.  G.  Manville  Smith  always  patron- 
ized Brandeis'  Bazaar  for  Scourine  alone,  and  thus 
represented  pure  loss.  Also  she  my-good-womaned 
Mrs.  Brandeis.  That  lady,  seeing  her  enter  one  day 
with  her  comic,  undulating  gait,  double-actioned  like 
a  giraffe's,  and  her  plumes  that  would  have  shamed  a 
Knight  of  Pythias,  decided  to  put  a  stop  to  these  un- 
profitable visits. 


FANNY   HERSELF  28 

She  waited  on  Mrs.  G.  Manville  Smith,  a  dangerous 
gleam  in  her  eye. 

"Scourine,"  spake  Mrs.  G.  Manville  Smith. 

"How  many.?" 

"A  dozen." 

"Anything  else?'* 

"No.    Send  them." 

Mrs.  Brandeis,  scribbling  in  her  sales  book,  stopped, 
pencil  poised.  "We  cannot  send  Scourine  unless  with  a 
purchase  of  other  goods  amounting  to  a  dollar  or 
more." 

Mrs.  G.  Manville  Smith's  plumes  tossed  and  soared 
agitatedly.  "But  my  good  woman,  I  don't  want  any- 
thing else!" 

"Then  you'll  have  to  carry  the  Scourine." 

"Certainly  not !    I'll  send  for  it." 

"The  sale  closes  at  five."    It  was  then  4 :5T. 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  You  can'i  expect 
me  to  carry  them." 

Now,  Mrs.  G.  Manville  Smith  had  been  a  dining- 
room  girl  at  the  old  Haley  House  before  she  married 
George  Smith,  and  long  before  he  made  his  money  in 
lumber. 

"You  won't  find  them  so  heavy,"  Molly  Brandeis 
said  smoothly. 

"I  certainly  would!  Perhaps  you  would  not. 
You're  used  to  that  sort  of  thing.  Rough  work,  and 
all  that." 

Aloysius,  doubled  up  behind  the  lamps,  knew  what 
was  coming,  from  the  gleam  in  his  boss's  eye. 

"There  may  be  something  in  that,"  Molly  Brandeis 
returned  sweetly.  "That's  why  I  thought  you  might 
not  mind  taking  them.  They're  really  not  much  heav- 
ier than  a  laden  tray." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  outraged  Mrs.  G.  Manville 
Smith.  And  took  her  plumes  and  her  patronage  out 
of  Brandeis'  Bazaar  forever. 


24  FANNY   HERSELF 

That  was  as  malicious  as  Molly  Brandeis  ever  could 
be.    And  it  was  forgivable  malice. 

Most  families  must  be  described  against  the  back- 
ground of  their  homes,  but  the  Brandeis  family  life 
was  bounded  and  controlled  by  the  store.  Their  meals 
and  sleeping  hours  and  amusements  were  regulated  by 
it.  It  taught  them  much,  and  brought  them  much,  and 
lost  them  much.  Fanny  Brandeis  always  said  she  hated 
it,  but  it  made  her  wise,  and  tolerant,  and,  in  the  end, 
famous.  I  don't  know  what  more  one  could  ask  of  any 
institution.  It  brought  her  in  contact  with  men  and 
women,  taught  her  how  to  deal  with  them.  After  school 
she  used  often  to  nm  down  to  the  store  to  see  her 
mother,  while  Theodore  went  home  to  practice. 
Perched  on  a  high  stool  in  some  corner  she  heard,  and 
saw,  and  absorbed.  It  was  a  great  school  for  the  sen- 
sitive, highly-organized,  dramatic  little  Jewish  girl,  for, 
to  paraphrase  a  well-known  stage  line,  there  are  just 
as  many  kinds  of  people  in  Winnebago  as  there  are  in 
Washington. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Fanny  Brandeis  began 
to  realize,  actively,  that  she  was  different.  Of  course, 
other  little  Winnebago  girls'  mothers  did  not  work  like 
a  man,  in  a  store.  And  she  and  Bella  Weinberg  were 
w  the  only  two  in  her  room  at  school  who  stayed  out  on 
'^  the  Day  of  Atonement,  and  on  New  Year,  and  the  lesser 
Jewish  holidays.  Also,  she  went  to  temple  on  Friday 
night  and  Saturday  morning,  when  the  other  girls  she 
knew  went  to  church  on  Sunday.  These  things  set  her 
apart  in  the  little  Middle  Western  town;  but  it  was 
not  these  that  constituted  the  real  difference.  She 
played,  and  slept,  and  ate,  and  studied  like  the  other 
;'  healthy  little  animals  of  her  age.  The  real  difference 
-A^  i  was  temperamental,  or  emotional,  or  dramatic,  or  his- 
toric, or  all  four.  They  would  be  playing  tag,  perhaps, 
in  one  of  the  cool,  green  ravines  that  were  the  beauty 
spots  of  the  little  Wisconsin  town. 


FANNY   HERSELF  25 

They  nestled  like  exquisite  emeralds  in  the  embrace 
of  the  hills,  those  ravines,  and  Winnebago's  civic  surge 
had  not  yet  swept  them  away  in  a  deluge  of  old  tin 
cans,  ashes,  dirt  and  refuse,  to  be  sold  later  for  build- 
ing lots.  The  Indians  had  camped  and  hunted  in  them. 
The  one  under  the  Court  Street  bridge,  near  the  Catho- 
lic church  and  monastery,  was  the  favorite  for  play. 
It  lay,  a  lovely,  gracious  thing,  below  the  hot  little 
town,  all  green,  and  lush,  and  cool,  a  tiny  stream  dim- 
pling through  it.  The  plump  Capuchin  Fathers,  in 
their  coarse  brown  robes,  knotted  about  the  waist  with 
a  cord,  their  bare  feet  thrust  into  sandals,  would  come 
out  and  sun  themselves  on  the  stone  bench  at  the  side 
of  the  monastery  on  the  hill,  or  would  potter  about  the 
garden.  And  suddenly  Fanny  would  stop  quite  still 
in  the  midst  of  her  tag  game,  struck  with  the  beauty 
of  the  picture  it  called  from  the  past.  "~^-,     i , 

Little  Oriental  that  she  was,  she  was  able  to  com-      j^ 
bine  the  dry  text  of  her  history  book  with  the  green   ^H 
of  the  trees,  the  gray  of  the  church,  and  the  brown    '-'^ 
of  the  monk's  robes,  and  evolve  a  thrilling  mental  pic- 
ture therefrom.     The  tag  game  and  her  noisy  little 
companions  vanished.    She  was  peopling  the  place  with 
stealthy    Indians.      Stealthy,    cunning,    yet    savagely 
brave.    They  bore  no  relation  to  the  abject,  contempti- 
ble, and  rather  smelly  Oneidas  who  came  to  the  back    ^dS 
door  on  summer  mornings,  in  calico,  and  ragged  over-    y^^^ 
alls,  with  baskets  of  huckleberries  on  their  arm,  their     ^ 
pride  gone,  a  broken  and  conquered  people.     She  saw 
them"  wild,  free,  sovereign,  and  there  were  no  greasy, 
berry-peddling  Oneidas  among  them.    They  were  Sioux, 
and   Pottawatomies    (that   last  had    the    real   Indian 
sound),  and  Winnebagos,  and  Menomonees,  and  Outa- 
gamis.     She  made  them  taciturn,  and  beady-eyed,  and 
lithe,  and  fleet,  and  every  other  adjectival  thing  her 
imagination  and  history  book  could  supply.     The  fat 
^nd  placid  Capuchin  Fathers  on  the  hiU  became  Jes- 


1^ 


26  FANNY   HERSELF 

uits,  sinister,  silent,  powerful,  with  France  and  the 
Church  of  Rome  behind  them.  From  the  shelter  of  that 
big  oak  would  step  Nicolet,  the  brave,  first  among 
Wisconsin  explorers,  and  last  to  receive  the  credit  for 
his  hardihood.  Jean  Nicolet!  She  loved  the  sound  of 
it.  And  with  him  was  La  Salle,  straight,  and  slim,  and 
'  elegant,  and  surely  wearing  ruffles  and  plumes  and 
sword  even  in  a  canoe.  And  Tontj,  his  Italian  friend 
and  fellow  adventurer — Tonty  of  the  satins  and  vel- 
vets, graceful,  tactful,  poised,  a  shadowy  figure;  his 
menacing  iron  hand,  so  feared  by  the  ignorant  savages, 

encased  always  in  a  glove.     Surely  a  perfumed  g 

Slap !  A  rude  shove  that  jerked  her  head  back  sharply 
and  sent  her  forward,  stumbling,  and  jarred  her  like 
a  fall. 

*'Ya-a-a!    Tag!    You're  it!    Fanny's  it!'* 

Indians,  priests,  cavaliers,  coureurs  de  hois,  all  van- 
ished. Fanny  would  stand  a  moment,  blinking  stu- 
pidly. The  next  moment  she  was  running  as  fleetly  as 
the  best  of  the  boys  in  savage  pursuit  of  one  of  her 
companions  in  the  tag  game. 

She  was  a  strange  mixture  of  tomboy  and  book- 
worm, which  was  a  mercifully  kind  arrangement  for 
both  body  and  mind.  The  spiritual  side  of  her  was 
groping  and  staggering  and  feeling  its  way  about  as 
does  that  of  any  little  girl  whose  mind  is  exceptionally 
active,  and  whose  mother  is  unusually  busy.  It  was  on 
the  Day  of  Atonement,  known  in  the  Hebrew  as  Yom 
Kippur,  in  the  year  following  her  father's  death  that 
{  I  that  side  of  her  performed  a  rather  interesting  hand- 
\    spring. 

Fanny  Brandeis  had  never  been  allowed  to  fast  on 
/  this,  the  greatest  and  most  solemn  of  Jewish  holy  days. 
;  Molly  Brandeis'  modern  side  refused  to  countenance 
the  practice  of  withholding  food  from  any  child  iot 
>  twenty-four  hours.  So  it  was  in  the  face  of  disap- 
proval that  Fanny,  making  deep  inroads  into  the  steak 


FANNY   HERSELF  2T 

and  fried  sweet  potatoes  at  supper  on  the  eve  of  the 
Day  of  Atonement,  announced  her  intention  of  fasting 
from  that  meal  to  supper  on  the  following  evening. 
She  had  just  passed  her  plate  for  a  third  helping  of 
potatoes.  Theodore,  one  lap  behind  her  in  the  race, 
had  entered  his  objection. 

J      "Well,  for  the  land's  sakes !"  he  protested.     "I  guess 
you're  not  the  only  one  who  likes  sweet  potatoes." 

Fanny  applied  a  generous  dab  of  butter  to  an  al- 
ready buttery  morsel,  and  chewed  it  with  an  air  of 
conscious  virtue. 

I      "I've  got  to  eat  a  lot.    This  is  the  last  bite  I'll  have 
until  to-morrow  night." 

"What's  that.?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Brandeis,  sharply. 

"Yes,  it  is !"  hooted  Theodore. 

Fanny  wefit  on  conscientiously  eating  as  she  ex- 
plained. 

"Bella  Weinberg  and  I  are  going  to  fast  all  day. 
We  just  want  to  see  if  we  can." 

"Betcha  can't,"  Theodore  said. 

Mrs.  Brandeis  regarded  her  small  daughter  with  a]|  -j 
thoughtful  gaze.     "But  that  isn't  the  object  in  fast- 
ing, Fanny — ^just  to  see  if  you  can.     If  you're  going 
to   think  of  food  all  through  the  Yom  Kippur   ser- 
vices  " 

"I  sha'n't.?"  protested  Fanny  passionately.  "Theo- 
dore would,  but  I  won't." 

"Wouldn't  any  such  thing,"  denied  Theodore.     "But   ^ 
if  I'm  going  to  play  a  violin  solo  during  the  memorial 
service  I  guess  I've  got  to  eat  my  regular  meals." 

Theodore  sometimes  played  at  temple,  on  special 
occasions.  The  little  congregation,  listening  to  the  » 
throbbing  rise  and  fall  of  this  fifteen-year-old  boy's 
violin  playing,  realized,  vaguely,  that  here  was  some- 
thing disturbingly,  harrowingly  beautiful.  They  did 
not  know  that  they  were  listening  to  genius. 
.     Molly  Brandeis,  in  her  second  best  dress,  walked  to 


28         fanny;  herself. 

temple  Yom  Kippur  eve,  her  son  at  her  right  side, 
her  daughter  at  her  left.  She  had  made  up  her  mind 
that  she  would  not  let  this  next  day,  with  its  poig- 
pnantly  beautiful  service,  move  her  too  deeply.  It  was 
(  the  first  since  her  husband's  death,  and  Rabbi  Thal- 
mann  rather  prided  himself  on  his  rendition  of  the 
memorial  service  that  came  at  three  in  the  afternoon. 
^  A  man  of  learning,  of  sweetness,  and  of  gentle  wit 
was  Rabbi  Thalmann,  and  unappreciated  by  his  con- 
gregation. He  stuck  to  the  Scriptures  for  his  texts, 
finding  Moses  a  greater  leader  than  Roosevelt,  and  the 
miracle  of  the  Burning  Bush  more  wonderful  than  the 
marvels  of  twentieth-century  wizardy  in  electricity.  A 
little  man.  Rabbi  Thalmann,  with  hands  and  feet  as 
small  and  delicate  as  those  of  a  woman.  Fanny  found 
him  fascinating  to  look  on,  in  his  rabbinical  black 
broadcloth  and  his  two  pairs  of  glasses  perched,  in 
reading,  upon  his  small  hooked  nose.  He  stood  very 
straight  in  the  pulpit,  but  on  the  street  you  saw  that 
his  back  was  bent  just  the  least  bit  in  the  world — or 
perhaps  it  was  only  his  student  stoop,  as  he  walked 
along  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  smoking  those  slen- 
der, dapper,  pale  brown  cigars  that  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  expressly  cut  and  rolled  to  fit  him.  I 

The  evening  service  was  at  seven.  The  congregation, 
rustling  in  silks,  was  approaching  the  little  temple  from 
vaU  directions.  Inside,  there  was  a  low-toned  buzz  of 
■conversation.  The  Brandeis'  seat  was  weU  toward 
the  rear,  as  befitted  a  less  prosperous  member  of  the 
^  rich  little  congregation.  This  enabled  them  to  get  a 
complete  picture  of  the  room  in  its  holiday  splendor. 
Fanny  drank  it  in  eagerly,  her  dark  eyes  soft  and  lu- 
minous. The  bare,  yellow-varnished  wooden  pews  glowed 
with  the  reflection  from  the  chandeliers.  The  seven- 
branched  candlesticks  on  either  side  of  the  pulpit  were 
entwined  with  smilax.  The  red  plush  curtain  that 
hung  in  front  of  the  Ark  on  ordinary  days,  an^  the  red 


FANNY   HERSELF  29 

plush  pulpit  cover  too,  were  replaced  by  gleaming  white 
satin  edged  with  gold  fringe  and  finished  at  the  corners 
with  heavy  gold  tassels.  How  the  rich  white  satin  glis- 
tened in  the  light  of  the  electric  candles!  Fanny 
Brandeis  loved  the  lights,  and  the  gleam,  and  the  music,  ' 
so  majestic,  and  solemn,  and  the  sight  of  the  little 
rabbi,  sitting  so  straight  and  serious  in  his  high-backed 
chair,  or  standing  to  read  from  the  great  Bible. 
There  came  to  this  emotional  little  Jewess  a  thrill 
that  was  not  bom  of  religious  fervor  at  all,  I  am 
afraid. 

The  sheer  drama  of  the  thing  got  her.    In  fact,  the 
thing  she  had  set  herself  to  do  to-day  had  in  it  very 
little  of  religion.    Mrs.  Brandeis  had  been  right  about 
that.    It  was  a  test  of  endurance,  as  planned.    Fanny 
had  never  fasted  in  all  her  healthy  life.     She  would 
come  home  from  school  to  eat  formidable  stacks  of  } 
bread  and  butter,  enhanced  by  brown  sugar  or  grape  ' 
jelly,  and  topped  off  with  three  or  four  apples  from  \ 
the  barrel  in  the  cellar.     Two  hours  later  she  would 
attack  a  supper  of  fried  potatoes,  and  liver,  and  tea, 
and  peach  preserve,  and  more  stacks   of  bread  and 
butter.     Then  there  were  the  cherry  trees  in  the  back  , 
yard,  and  the  berry  bushes,  not  to  speak  of  sundry 
bags  of  small,  hard  candies  of  the  jelly-bean  variety, 
fitted  for  quick  and  secret  munching  during  school. 
She  liked  good  things  to  eat,  this  sturdy  little  girl,  as 
did  her  friend,  that  blonde  and  creamy  person,  Bella 
Weinberg. 

The  two  girls  exchanged  meaningful  glances  during 
the  evening  service.  The  Weinbergs,  as  befitted  their  ' 
station,  sat  in  the  tliird  row  at  the  right,  and  Bella 
had  to  turn  around  to  convey  her  silent  messages  to 
Fanny.  The  evening  service  was  brief,  even  to  the  ser- 
mon. Rabbi  Thalmann  and  his  congregation  would 
need  their  strength  for  to-morrow's  trial. 

The  Brandeises  walked  home  through  the  soft  Sep- 


30  FANNY   HERSELF 

tember  night,  and  the  children  had  to  use  all  their 
Yom  Kippur  dignity  to  keep  from  scuffling  through  the 
piled-up  drifts  of  crackling  autumn  leaves.  Theodore 
went  to  the  cellar  and  got  an  apple,  which  he  ate  with 
what  Fanny  considered  an  unnecessary  amount  of 
scrunching.  It  was  a  firm,  juicy  apple,  and  it  gave 
forth  a  cracking  sound  when  his  teeth  met  in  its  white 
meat.  Fanny,  after  regarding  him  with  gloomy  supe- 
riority, went  to  bed. 

She  had  willed  to  sleep  late,  for  gastronomic  rea- 
sons, but  the  mental  command  disobeyed  itself,  and  she 
woke  early,  with  a  heavy  feeling.     Early  as  it  was, 
Molly  Brandeis  had  tiptoed  in  still  earlier  to  look  at 
\  her  strange  little  daughter.     She  sometimes  did  that  on 
I  Saturday  mornings  when  she  left  early  for  the  store 
1  and  Fanny  slept  late.     This  morning  Fanny's  black 
I  hair  was  spread  over  the  pillow  as  she  lay  on  her  back, 
one  arm  outflung,  the  other  at  her  breast.     She  made 
a  rather  startlingly  black  and  white  and  scarlet  picture 
as  she  lay  there  asleep.    Fanny  did  things  very  much  in 
that  way,  too,  with  broad,  vivid,  unmistakable  splashes 
of  color.     Mrs.  Brandeis,  looking  at  the  black-haired, 
red-lipped  child  sleeping  there,  wondered  just  how  much 
determination  lay  back  of  the  broad  white  brow.     She 
had  said  little  to  Fanny  about  this  feat  of  fasting,  and 
she  told  herself  that  she  disapproved  of  it.    But  in  her 
heart  she  wanted  the  girl  to  see  it  through,  once  at- 
tempted. 

Fanny  awoke  at  half  past  seven,  and  her  nostrils  di- 
lated to  that  most  exquisite,  tantalizing  and  fragrant 
of  smells — the  aroma  of  simmering  coffee.  It  per- 
meated the  house.  It  tickled  the  senses.  It  carried  with 
it  visions  of  hot,  brown  breakfast  rolls,  and  eggs,  and 
butter.  Fanny  loved  her  breakfast.  She  turned  over 
now,  and  decided  to  go  to  sleep  again.  But  she  could 
not.  She  got  up  and  dressed  slowly  and  carefully. 
There  was  no  one  to  hurry  her  this  morning  with  the 


FANNY   HERSELF  81 

call  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs  of,  **Fanny!     Your 
egg'll  get  cold !" 

She  put  on  clean,  crisp  underwear,  and  did  her  hair 
expertly.  She  slipped  an  all-enveloping  pinafore  over 
her  head,  that  the  new  silk  dress  might  not  be  crushed 
before  church  time^  She  thought  that  Theodore  would 
surely  have  finished  his  breakfast  by  this  time.  But 
when  she  came  down-stairs  he  was  at  the  table.  Not 
only  that,  he  had  just  begun  his  breakfast.  An  egg, 
all  golden,  and  white,  and  crisply  brown  at  the  frilly 
edges,  lay  on  his  plate.  Theodore  always  ate  his  egg  in 
a  mathematical  sort  of  way.  He  swallowed  the  white 
hastily  first,  because  he  disliked  it,  and  Mrs.  Brandeis 
insisted  that  he  eat  it.  Then  he  would  brood  a  moment 
over  the  yolk  that  lay,  unmarred  and  complete,  like 
an  amber  jewel  in  the  center  of  his  plate.  Then  he 
would  suddenly  plunge  his  fork  into  the  very  heart  of 
the  jewel,  and  it  would  flow  over  his  plate,  mingling 
with  the  butter,  and  he  would  catch  it  deftly  with  little 
mops  of  warm,  crisp,  buttery  roll. 

Fanny  passed  the  breakfast  table  just  as  Theodore 
plunged  his  fork  into  the  egg  yolk.  She  caught  her 
breath  sharply,  and  closed  her  eyes.  Then  she  turned 
and  fled  to  the  front  porch  and  breathed  deeply  and 
windily  of  the  heady  September  Wisconsin  morning  air. 
As  she  stood  there,  with  her  stiff,  short  black  curls 
still  damp  and  glistening,  in  her  best  shoes  and  stock- 
ings, with  the  all-enveloping  apron  covering  her  sturdy 
j  little  figure,  the  light  of  struggle  and  renunciation 
'in  her  face,  she  typified  something  at  once  fine  and 
earthy.  -~, 

But  the  real  struggle  was  to  come  later.    They  went  1 
to   temple   at   ten,   Theodore   with  his   beloved   violin 
tucked  carefully  under  his  arm.     Bella  Weinberg  was 
waiting  at  the  steps. 

"Did  you?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

*'0f  course  not,"  replied  Fanny  disdainfully.     ^^Do 


-f] 


82  FANNY   HERSELF 

you  think  I'd  eat  old  breakfast  when  I  said  I  was  goir»g 
to  fast  all  day?"  Then,  with  sudden  suspicion,  "Did 
you?" 

"No !"  stoutly. 

And  they  entered,  and  took  their  seats.  It  was  fas- 
cinating to  watch  the  other  members  of  the  congrega- 
tion come  in,  the  women  rustling,  the  men  subduetl  in 
the  unaccustomed  dignity  of  black  on  a  week  day.  One 
glance  at  the  yellow  pews  was  like  reading  a  complete 
psocial  and  financial  register.  The  seating  arrangement 
of  the  temple  was  the  Almanach  de  Gotha  of  Congre- 
gation Emanu-el.  Old  Ben  Reitman,  patriarch  among 
-^the  Jewish  settlers  of  Winnebago,  who  had  come  over 
an  immigrant  youth,  and  who  now  owned  hundreds  of 
rich  farm  acres,  besides  houses,  mills  and  banks^,  kinged 
it  from  the  front  seat  of  the  center  section.  He  was  a 
magnificent  old  man,  with  a  ruddy  face,  and  a  fine  head 
with  a  shock  of  heavy  iron-gray  hair,  keen  eyes,  un- 
dimmed  by  years,  and  a  startling  and  unexpected  dim- 
ple in  one  cheek  that  gave  him  a  mischievous  and  boy- 
ish look. 

Behind  this  dignitary  sat  his  sons,  and  their  wives, 
and  his  daughters  and  their  husbands,  and  their  chil- 
dren, and  so  on,  back  to  the  Brandeis  pew,  third  from 
the  last,  behind  which  sat  only  a  few  obscure  families 
branded  as  Russians,  as  only  the  German-bom  Jew 
can  brand  those  whose  misfortune  it  is  to  be  born  in 
that  region  known  as  hinter-Berlin. 
'  The  morning  flew  by,  with  its  music,  its  responses,  its 
sermon  in  German,  full  of  four-  and  five-syUable  Ger- 
man words  like  Barmherzigkeit  and  Eigentumlichkeit. 
All  during  the  sermon  Fanny  sat  and  dreamed  and 
watched  the  shadow  on  the  window  of  the  pine  tree 
that  stood  close  to  the  temple,  and  was  vastly  amused 
at  the  jaundiced  look  that  the  square  of  yellow  win- 
dow glass  cast  upon  the  face  of  the  vain  and  over- 
dressed Mrs.  Nathan  Pereles.    From  time  to  time  Bella 


FANNY   HERSELF  33 

would  turn  to  bestow  upon  her  a  look  Intended  to  con- 
vey intense  suffering  and  a  resolute  though  dying  con- 
dition. Fanny  stonily  ignored  these  mute  messages. 
They  offended  something  in  her,  though  she  could  not 
tell  what. 

At  the  noon  intermission  she  did  not  go  home  to  the 
tempting  dinner  smells,  but  wandered  off  through  the 
little  city  park  and  down  to  the  river,  where  she  sat 
on  the  bank  and  felt  very  virtuous,  and  spiritual,  and 
hollow.  She  was  back  in  her  seat  when  the  afternoon 
service  was  begun.  Some  of  the  more  devout  members 
had  remained  to  pray  all  through  the  midday.  The 
congregation  came  straggling  in  by  twos  and  threes. 
Many  of  the  women  had  exchanged  the  severely  corseted 
discomfort  of  the  morning's  splendor  for  the  compara- 
tive ease  of  second-best  silks.  Mrs.  Brandeis,  absent 
from  her  business  throughout  this  holy  day,  came  hur- 
rying in  at  two,  to  look  with  a  rather  anxious  eye  upon 
her  pale  and  resolute  little  daughter. 

The  memorial  service  was  to  begin  shortly  after 
three,  and  lasted  almost  two  hours.  At  quarter  to 
three  Bella  slipped  out  through  the  side  aisle,  beckon- 
ing mysteriously  and  alluringly  to  Fanny  as  she  went. 
Fanny  looked  at  her  mother. 

"Run  along,"  said  Mrs.  Brandeis.  *'The  air  will  be 
good  for  you.  Come  back  before  the  memorial  ser- 
vice begins." 

Fanny  and  Bella  met,  giggling,  in  the  vestibule. 

"Come  on  over  to  my  house  for  a  minute,"  Bella 
suggested.  "I  want  to  show  you  something."  The 
Weinberg  house,  a  great,  comfortable,  well-built  home, 
with  encircling  veranda,  and  a  well-cared-for  lawn,  was 
just  a  scant  block  away.  They  skipped  across  the 
street,  down  the  block,  and  in  at  the  back  door.  The 
big  sunny  kitchen  was  deserted.  The  house  seemed 
very  quiet  and  hushed.  Over  it  hung  the  delicious 
fragrance  of  freshly-baked  pastry.     BelU^  a   rather 


84  FANNY   HERSELF 

baleful  look  in  her  eyes,  led  the  way  to  the  butler's 
pantry  that  was  as  large  as  the  average  kitchen.  And 
there,  ranged  on  platters,  and  baking  boards,  and  on 
snowy-white  napkins,  was  that  which  made  Tantalus's 
feast  seem  a  dry  and  barren  snack.  The  Weinberg's 
had  baked. 

It  is  the  custom  in  the  household  of  Atonement  Day 
fasters  of  the  old  school  to  begin  the  evening  meal,  after 
the  twenty-four  hours  of  abstainment,  with  coffee  and 
freshly-baked  coffee  cake  of  every  variety.  It  was  a 
lead-pipe  blow  at  one's  digestion,  but  delicious  beyond 
imagining.  Bella's  mother  was  a  famous  cook,  and  her 
two  maids  followed  in  the  ways  of  their  mistress.  There 
were  to  be  sisters  and  brothers  and  out-of-town  rela- 
tions as  guests  at  the  evening  meal,  and  Mrs.  Wein- 
berg had  outdone  herself. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Fanny  in  a  sort  of  agony  and  de- 
light. 

"Take  some,"  said  Bella,  the  temptress. 

The  pantry  was  fragrant  as  a  garden  with  spices, 
and  fruit  scents,  and  the  melting,  delectable  perfume  of 
brown,  freshly-baked  dough,  sugar-coated.  There  was 
one  giant  platter  devoted  wholly  to  round,  plump  cakes, 
with  puffy  edges,  in  the  center  of  each  a  sunken  pool 
that  was  all  plum,  bearing  on  its  bosom  a  snowy  sift- 
ing of  powdered  sugar.  There  were  others  whose  cen- 
ters were  apricot,  pure  molten  gold  in  the  sunlight. 
There  were  speckled  expanses  of  cheese  kuchen^  the 
golden-brown  surface  showing  rich  cracks  through 
which  one  caught  glimpses  of  the  lemon-yellow  cheese  be- 
neath— cottage  cheese  that  had  been  beaten  up  with 
eggs,  and  spices,  and  sugar,  and  lemon.  Flaky  crust 
rose,  jaggedly,  above  this  plateau.  There  were  cakes 
with  jelly,  and  cinnamon  kuchen,  and  cunning  cakes 
with  almond  slices  nestling  side  by  side.  And  there  was 
freslily-baked  bread — twisted  loaf,  with  poppy  seed 
freckling  its  braid,  and  its   sides  glistening  with  the 


FANNY   HERSELF  35 

butter  that  had  been  liberally  swabbed  on  it  before  it 
had  been  thrust  into  the  oven. 

Fanny  Brandeis  gazed,  hypnotized.  As  she  gazed 
Bella  selected  a  plum  tart  and  bit  into  it — ^bit  gener- 
ously, so  that  her  white  little  teeth  met  in  the  very  mid- 
dle of  the  oozing  red-brown  juice  and  one  heard  a  little 
squirt  as  they  closed  on  the  luscious  fruit.  At  the 
sound  Fanny  quivered  all  through  her  plump  and 
starved  little  body. 

"Have  one,"  said  Bella  generously.  "Go  on.  No- 
body'U  ever  know.  Anyway,  we've  fasted  long  enough 
for  our  age.  I  could  fast  till  supper  time  if  I  wanted 
to,  but  I  don't  want  to."  She  swallowed  the  last  mor- 
sel of  the  plum  tart,  and  selected  another — apricot, 
this  time,  and  opened  her  moist  red  lips.  But  just 
before  she  bit  into  it  (the  Inquisition  could  have  used 
Bella's  talents)  she  selected  its  counterpart  and  held  it 
out  to  Fanny.  Fanny  shook  her  head  slightly.  Her 
hand  came  up  involuntarily.  Her  eyes  were  fastened 
on  Bella's  face. 

"Go  on,"  urged  Bella.  "Take  it.  They're  grand! 
M-m-m-m!"  The  first  bite  of  apricot  vanished  be- 
tween her  rows  of  sharp  white  teeth.  Fanny  shut  her 
eyes  as  if  in  pain.  She  was  fighting  the  great  fight  of 
her  life.  She  was  to  meet  other  temptations,  and  per- 
haps more  glittering  ones,  in  her  lifetime,  but  to  her 
dying  day  she  never  forgot  that  first  battle  between  the 
flesh  and  the  spirit,  there  in  the  sugar-scented  pantry 
— and  the  spirit  won.  As  Bella's  lips  closed  upon  the 
second  bite  of  apricot  tart,  the  while  her  eye  roved 
over  the  almond  cakes  and  her  hand  still  held  the  sweet 
out  to  Fanny,  that  young  lady  turned  sharply,  like  a 
soldier,  and  marched  blindly  out  of  the  house^  down  the 
back  steps,  across  the  street,  and  so  into  the  temple. 

The  evening  lights  had  just  been  turned  on.  The 
little  congregation,  relaxed,  weary,  weak  from  hunger, 
many  of  them,  sat  rapt  and  still  except  at  those  time* 


36  FANNY   HERSELF 

when  the  prayer  book  demanded  spoken  responses. 
The  voice  of  the  little  rabbi,  rather  weak  now,  had  in 
it  a  timbre  that  made  it  startlingly  sweet  and  clear 
and  resonant.  Fanny  slid  very  quietly  into  the  seat 
beside  Mrs.  Brandeis,  and  slipped  her  moist  and  cold 
little  hand  into  her  mother's  warm,  work-roughened 
palm.  The  mother's  brown  eyes,  very  bright  with  un- 
shed tears,  left  their  perusal  of  the  prayer  book  to 
dwell  upon  the  white  little  face  that  was  smiling  rather 
wanly  up  at  her.  The  pages  of  the  prayer  book  lay 
two-thirds  or  more  to  the  left.  Just  as  Fanny  re- 
marked this,  there  was  a  little  moment  of  hush  in  the 
march  of  the  day's  long  service.  The  memorial  hour 
had  begun. 

Little  Doctor  Thalmann  cleared  his  throat.  The 
congregation  stirred  a  bit,  changed  its  cramped  posi- 
tion. Bella,  the  guilty,  came  stealing  in,  a  pink-and- 
gold  picture  of  angelic  virtue.  Fanny,  looking  at  her, 
felt  very  aloof,  and  clean,  and  remote. 

Molly  Brandeis  seemed  to  sense  what  had  happened. 

"But  you  didn't,  did  you?"  she  whispered  softly. 

Fanny  shook  her  head. 

Rabbi  Thalmann  was  seated  in  his  great  carved 
chair.  His  eyes  were  closed.  The  wheezy  little  organ 
in  the  choir  loft  at  the  rear  of  the  temple  began  the 
opening  bars  of  Schumann's  Traiimerei.  And  then, 
above  the  cracked  voice  of  the  organ,  rose  the  clear, 
poignant  wail  of  a  violin.  Theodore  Brandeis  had  be- 
gun to  play.  You  know  the  playing  of  the  average  boy 
of  fifteen — that  nerve-destroying,  uninspired  scraping. 
There  was  nothing  of  this  in  the  sounds  that  this  boy 
called  forth  from  the  little  wooden  box  and  the  stick 
with  its  taut  lines  of  catgut.  Whatever  it  was — the 
length  of  the  thin,  sensitive  fingers,  the  turn  of  the 
wrist,  the  articulation  of  the  forearm,  the  something 
in  the  brain,  or  all  these  combined — Theodore  Brandeis 
possessed  that  which  makes  for  greatness.     You  real- 


FANNY   HERSELF  37 

ized  that  as  he  crouched  over  his  violin  to  get  his  cello 
tones.  As  he  played  to-day  the  little  congregation  sat 
very  still,  and  each  was  thinking  of  his  ambitions  and 
his  failures  ;  of  the  lover  lost,  of  the  duty  left  undone,  of 
the  hope  deferred ;  of  the  wrong  that  was  never  righted ; 
of  the  lost  one  whose  memory  spells  remorse.  It  felt 
the  salt  taste  on  its  lips.  It  put  up  a  furtive,  shamed  • 
hand  to  dab  at  its  cheeks,  and  saw  that  the  one  who  ■ 
sat  in  the  pew  just  ahead  was  doing  likewise.  This  is 
what  happened  when  this  boy  of  fifteen  wedded  his 
bow  to  his  ^dolin.  And  he  who  makes  us  feel  all  this 
has  that  indefinable,  magic,  glorious  thing  known  as 
Grenius. 

When  it  was  over,  there  swept  through  the  room  that 
sigh  following  tension  relieved.  Rabbi  Thalmann  passed 
a  hand  over  his  tired  eyes,  like  one  returning  from  a 
far  mental  journey;  then  rose,  and  came  forward  to 
the  pulpit.  He  began,  in  Hebrew,  the  opening  words 
of  the  memorial  service,  and  so  on  to  the  prayers  in 
English,  with  their  words  of  infinite  humility  and  wis- 
dom. 

"Thou  hast  implanted  in  us  the  capacity  for  sin, 
but  not  sin  itself !"  (£»(ft«ii^ 

Fanny  stirred.     She  had  learned  that  a  brief  half    ^ 
hour  ago.     The  service  marched  on,  a  moving  and  har- 
rowing thing.     The  amens  rolled  out  with  a  new  fervor  ^ 
from  the  listeners.     There  seemed  nothing  comic  now         ^. 
in  the  way  old  Ben  Reitman,  with  his  slower  eyes,  al-      $^ 
ways  came  out  five  words  behind  the  rest  who  tumbled      ^^^ 
upon  the  responses  and  scurried  briskly  through  them,       *^ 
so  that  his  fine  old  voice,  somewhat  hoarse  and  quaver- 
ing now,  rolled  out  its  "Amen!"  in  solitary  majesty. 
They   came   to   that  gem   of  humility,   the   mourners' 
prayer;  the  ancient  and  ever-solemn  Kaddish  prayer. 
There   is   nothing  in  the  written  language   that,  for 
sheer  drama  and  magnificence,  can  equal  it  as  it  is 
chanted  in  the  Hebrew. 


38  FANNY   HERSELF. 

As  Rabbi  Thalmann  began  to  intone  it  in  its  monot- 
onous repetition  of  praise,  there  arose  certain  black- 
robed  figures  from  their  places  and  stood  with  heads 
bowed  over  their  prayer  books.  These  were  members 
of  the  congregation  from  whom  death  had  taken  a  toll 
during  the  past  year.  Fanny  rose  with  her  mother  and 
Theodore,  who  had  left  the  choir  loft  to  join  them. 
The  little  wheezy  organ  played  very  softly.  The  black- 
robed  figures  swayed.  Here  and  there  a  half-stifled 
sob  rose,  and  was  crushed.  Fanny  felt  a  hot  haze  that 
blurred  her  vision.  She  winked  it  away,  and  another 
burned  in  its  place.  Her  shoulders  shook  with  a  sob. 
She  felt  her  mother's  hand  close  over  her  own  that  held 
one  side  of  the  book.  The  prayer,  that  was  not  of 
mourning  but  of  praise,  ended  with  a  final  crescendo 
from  the  organ.  The  silent  black-robed  figures  were 
seated. 

Over  the  little,  spent  congregation  hung  a  glorious 
atmosphere  of  detachment.  These  Jews,  listening  to 
the  words  that  had  come  from  the  lips  of  the  prophets 
in  Israel,  had  been,  on  this  day,  thrown  back  thousands 
of  years,  to  the  time  when  the  destruction  of  the  tem- 
ple was  as  real  as  the  shattered  spires  and  dome  of  the 
cathedral  at  Rheims.  Old  Ben  Reitman,  faint  with 
fasting,  was  far  removed  from  his  everyday  thoughts 
of  his  horses,  his  lumber  mills,  his  farms,  his  mortgages. 
Even  Mrs.  Nathan  Pereles,  in  her  black  satin  and 
bugles  and  jets,  her  cold,  hard  face  usually  unlighted 
by  sympathy  or  love,  seemed  to  feel  something  of  this 
emotional  wave.  Fanny  Brandeis  was  shaken  by  it. 
Her  head  ached  (that  was  hunger)  and  her  hands  were 
icy.  The  little  Russian  girl  in  the  seat  just  behind  them 
had  ceased  to  wriggle  and  squirm,  and  slept  against  her 
mother's  side.  Rabbi  Thalmann,  there  on  the  plat- 
form, seemed  somehow  very  far  away  and  vague.  The 
scent  of  clove  apples  and  ammonia  salts  filled  the  air. 
The   atmosphere   seemed   strangely   wavering   and   lu- 


fanny:  herself         so 

minous.  The  white  satin  of  the  Ark  curtain  gleamed 
and  shifted. 

The  long  service  swept  on  to  its  close.  Suddenly 
organ  and  choir  burst  into  a  paeon.  Little  Doctor 
Thalmann  raised  his  arms.  The  congregation  swept 
to  its  feet  with  a  mighty  surge.  Fanny  rose  with  them, 
her  face  very  white  in  its  frame  of  black  curls,  her  eyes 
luminous.  She  raised  her  face  for  the  words  of  the 
ancient  benediction  that  rolled,  in  its  simplicity  and 
grandeur,  from  the  lips  of  the  rabbi: 

"May  the  blessing  of  the  Lord  our  God  rest  upon 
you  all.  God  bless  thee  and  keep  thee.  May  God 
cause  His  countenance  to  shine  upon  thee  and  be  gra- 
cious unto  thee.  May  God  lift  up  His  countenance  unto 
thee,  and  grant  thee  peace." 

The  Day  of  Atonement  had  come  to  an  end.  It  was 
a  very  quiet,  subdued  and  spent  little  flock  that  dis- 
persed to  their  homes.  Fanny  walked  out  with  scarcely 
a  thought  of  Bella.  She  felt,  vaguely,  that  she  and  this 
school  friend  were  formed  of  different  stuff.  She  knew 
that  the  bond  between  them  had  been  the  grubby, 
physical  one  of  childhood,  and  that  they  never  would 
come  together  in  the  finer  relation  of  the  spirit,  though 
she  could  not  have  put  this  new  knowledge  into  words. 

Molly  Brandeis  put  a  hand  on  her  daughter's 
shoulder. 

"Tired,  Fanchen?" 

"A  little." 

"Bet  you're  hungry !"  from  Theodore. 

"I  was,  but  I'm  not  now." 

"M-m-m — wait!     Noodle  soup.     And  chicken!" 

She  had  intended  to  tell  of  the  trial  in  the  Wein- 
berg's pantry.  But  now  something  within  her — some- 
thing fine,  bom  of  this  day — kept  her  from  it.  But 
Molly  Brandeis,  to  whom  two  and  two  often  made  five, 
guessed  something  of  what  had  happened.  She  had  felt 
a  great  surge  of  pride,  had  Molly  Brandeis,  when  her 


40  FANNY   HERSELF 

son  had  swayed  the  congregation  with  the  magic  of 
his  music.  She  had  kissed  him  good  night  with  infinite 
tenderness  and  love.  But  she  came  into  her  daughter's 
tiny  room  after  Fanny  had  gone  to  bed,  and  leaned 
over,  and  put  a  cool  hand  on  the  hot  forehead. 

"Do  you  feel  all  right,  my  darling?'* 

"Umhmph,"  replied  Fanny  drowsily. 
'     "Fanchen,  doesn't  it  make  you  feel  happy  and  clean 
to  know  that  you  were  able  to  do  the  thing  you  started 
.out  to  do?" 

"Umhmph." 

**Only,"  Molly  Brandeis  was  thinking  aloud  now, 
quite  forgetting  that  she  was  talking  to  a  very  little 
girl,  "only,  life  seems  to  take  such  special  delight  in 
offering  temptation  to  those  who  are  able  to  withstand 
it.  I  don't  know  why  that's  true,  but  it  is.  I  hope — oh, 
my  little  girl,  my  baby — I  hope " 

But  Fanny  never  knew  whether  her  mother  finished 
that  sentence  or  not.  She  remembered  waiting  for 
the  end  of  it,  to  learn  what  it  was  her  mother  hoped. 
And  she  had  felt  a  sudden,  scalding  drop  on  her  hand 
where  her  mother  bent  over  her.  And  the  next  thing 
she  knew  it  was  morning,  with  mellow  September  sun- 
shine. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

IT  was  the  week  following  this  feat  of  fasting  that 
two  things  happened  to  Fanny  Brandeis — two 
seemingly  unimportant  and  childish  things — that  were 
to  affect  the  whole  tenor  of  her  life.  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  predict  thus.  It  gives  a  certain  weight 
to  a  story  and  a  sense  of  inevitableness.  It  should 
insure,  too,  the  readers's  support  to  the  point,  at 
least,  where  the  prediction  is  fulfilled.  Sometimes  a 
careless  author  loses  sight  altogether  of  his  promise, 
and  then  the  tricked  reader  is  likely  to  go  on  to  the 
very  final  page,  teased  by  the  expectation  that  that 
which  was  hinted  at  will  be  revealed. 

Fanny  Brandeis  had  a  way  of  going  to  the  public 
library  on  Saturday  afternoons  (with  a  bag  of  very 
sticky  peanut  candy  in  her  pocket,  the  little  sensual- 
ist!) and  there,  huddled  in  a  chair,  dreamily  and  al- 
most automatically  munching  peanut  brittle,  her  cheeks 
growing  redder  and  redder  in  the  close  air  of  the  ill- 
ventilated  room,  she  would  read,  and  read,  and  read. 
There  was  no  one  to  censor  her  reading,  so  she  read 
promiscuously,  wading  gloriously  through  trash  and 
classic  and  historical  and  hysterical  alike,  and  finding 
something  of  interest  in  them  all. 

She  read  the  sprightly  "Duchess"  novels,  where  mad 
offers  of  marriage  were  always  made  in  flower-scented 
conservatories ;  she  read  Dickens,  and  Thelma,  and 
old  bound  Cosmopolitans,  and  Zola,  and  de  Mau- 
passant, and  the  "Wide,  Wide  World,"  and  "Hans 
Brinker,  or  The  Silver  Skates,"  and  "Jane  Eyre." 
All  of  which  are  merely  mentioned  as  examples  of  her 

41 


,     42  FANNY   HERSELF 

Catholicism  in  literature.  As  she  read  she  was  unaware 
of  the  giggling  boys  and  girls  who  came  in  noisily,  and 
made  dates,  and  were  coldly  frowned  on  by  the  austere 
N^  Miss  Perkins,  the  librarian.  She  would  read  until  the 
fading  light  would  remind  her  that  the  short  fall  or 
winter  day  was  drawing  to  a  close. 

She  would  come,  shivering  a  little  after  the  fetid 
atmosphere  of  the  overheated  library,  into  the  crisp, 
cold  snap  of  the  astringent  Wisconsin  air.  Sometimes 
she  would  stop  at  the  store  for  her  mother.  Sometimes 
she  would  run  home  alone  through  the  twilight,  her 
heels  scrunching  the  snow,  her  whole  being  filled  with 
a  vague  and  unchildish  sadness  and  disquiet  as  she 
faced  the  tender  rose,  and  orange,  and  mauve,  and 
pale  lemon  of  the  winter  sunset.  There  were  times 
when  her  very  heart  ached  with  the  beauty  of  that 
color-flooded  sky ;  there  were  times,  later,  when  it 
^  ached  in  much  the  same  way  at  the  look  in  the  eyes  of 
a  pushcart  peddler;  there  were  times  when  it  ached, 
seemingly,  for  no  reason  at  all — as  is  sometimes  the 
^  case  when  one  is  a  little  Jew  girl,  with  whole  centuries 
of  suffering  behind  one. 
*  On  this  day  she  had  taken  a  book  from  the  library. 
Miss  Perkins/  at  sight  of  the  title,  had  glared  disap- 
provingly, and  had  hesitated  a  moment  before  stamping 
the  card. 

"Is  this  fer  yourself?"  she  had  asked. 

"Yes'm." 

"It  isn't  a  book  for  little  girls,"  snapped  Miss 
Perkins. 

"I've  read  half  of  it  already,"  Fanny  informed  her 
sweetly.  And  went  out  with  it  under  her  arm.  It  was 
Zola's  "The  Ladies'  Paradise"  (Au  Bonheur  des 
Dames).  The  story  of  the  shop  girl,  and  the  crushing 
of  the  little  dealer  by  the  great  and  moneyed  company 
had  thrilled  and  fascinated  her. 

Her  mind  was  full  of  it  as  she  turned  the  corner  on 


FANNY   HERSELF  48 

Norris  Street  and  ran  full-tilt,  Into  a  yowling,  taunt- 
ing, torturing  little  pack  of  boys.  They  were  gathered 
in  close  formation  about  some  object  which  they  were 
teasing,  and  knocking  about  in  the  mud,  and  other- 
wise abusing  with  the  savagery  of  their  years.  Fanny, 
the  fiery,  stopped  short.  She  pushed  into  the  ring. 
The  object  of  their  efforts  was  a  weak-kneed  and  hol- 
low-chested little  boy  who  could  not  fight  because  he 
was  cowardly  as  well  as  weak,  and  his  name  (oh,  pity!) 
was  Clarence — Clarence  Heyl.  There  are  few  things 
that  a  mischievous  group  of  small  boys  cannot  do  with' 
a  name  like  Clarence.  They  whined  it,  they  catcalled 
it,  they  shrieked  it  in  falsetto  imitation  of  Clarence's 
mother.  He  was  a  wide-mouthed,  sallow  and  pindling 
little  boy,  whose  pipe-stemmed  legs  looked  all  the  thin- 
ner for  being  contrasted  with  his  feet,  which  were  long 
and  narrow.  At  that  time  he  wore  spectacles,  too,  to 
correct  a  muscular  weakness,  so  that  his  one  good 
feature — great  soft,  liquid  eyes — passed  unnoticed. 
He  was  the  kind  of  little  boy  whose  mother  insists  on 
dressing  him  in  cloth-top,  buttoned,  patent-leather 
shoes  for  school.  His  blue  serge  suit  was  never 
patched  or  shiny.  His  stockings  were  virgin  at  the 
knee.  He  wore  an  overcoat  on  cool  autumn  days. 
Fanny  despised  and  pitied  him.  We  ask  you  not  to, 
because  in  this  puny,  shy  and  ugly  little  boy  of  fifteen  j 
you  behold  Our  Hero. 

He  staggered  to  his  feet  now,  as  Fanny  came  up. 
His  school  reefer  was  mud-bespattered.  His  stock- 
ings were  torn.  His  cap  was  gone  and  his  hair  was 
wild.  There  was  a  cut  or  scratch  on  one  cheek,  from 
which  the  blood  flowed. 

"I'll  tell  my  mother  on  you!"  he  screamed  impo- 
tently,  and  shook  with  rage  and  terror.  "You'll  see, 
you  will!     You  let  me  alone,  now!" 

Fanny  felt  a  sick  sensation  at  the  pit  of  her  stomach, 
and  in  her  throat.    Then: 


44  FANNY   HERSELF 

"He'll  tell  his  ma !"  sneered  the  boys  in  chorus.   "Oh, 

mamma!"     And  called  him  the  Name.     And  at  that  a 

she  wildcat  broke  loose  among  them.     She  pounced  on 

them  without  warning,  a  httle  fury  of  blazing  eyes  and 

flying  hair,  and  white  teeth  showing  in  a  snarl.     If 

she  had  fought  fair,  or  if  she  had  not  taken  them  so 

by    surprise,    she   would   have   been   powerless    among 

them.     But  she  had  sprung  at  them  with  the  sudden- 

\  ness  of  rage.     She  kicked,  and  scratched,  and  bit,  and 

I  clawed  and  spat.     She  seemed  not  to  feel  the  defensive 

i  blows  that  were  showered  upon  her  in  turn.     Her  own 

hard   little   fists   were   now   doubled   for   a   thump   or 

opened,  like  a  claw,  for  scratching. 

"Go  on  home!"  she  yelled  to  Clarence,  even  while 
she  fought.  And  Clarence,  gathering  up  his  tattered 
school  books,  went,  and  stood  not  on  the  order  of  his 
going.  Whereupon  Fanny  darted  nimbly  to  one  side, 
out  of  the  way  of  boyish  brown  fists.  In  that  moment 
she  was  transformed  from  a  raging  fury  into  a  very 
meek  and  trembling  little  girl,  who  looked  shyly  and 
pleadingly  out  from  a  tangle  of  curls.  The  boys  were 
for  rusliing  at  her  again. 

"Cowardy-cats !  Five  of  you  fighting  one  girl,"  cried 
Fanny,  her  lower  lip  trembling  ever  so  little.  "Come 
on !  Hit  me !  J^f raid  to  fight  anything  but  girls  !  Cow- 
ardy-cats!" A  tear,  pearly,  pathetic,  coursed  down 
her  cheek. 

The  drive  was  broken.  Five  sullen  little  boys  stood 
and  glared  at  her,  impotently. 

"You  hit  us  first,"  declared  one  boy.  "What  busi- 
ness d'  you  have  scratching  around  like  that,  I'd  like 
to  know !    You  old  scratch  cat !" 

"He's  sickly,"  said  Fanny.  "He  can't  fight.  There's 
something  the  matter  with  his  lungs,  or  something, 
and  they're  going  to  make  him  quit  school.  Be- 
sides, he's  a  billion  times  better  than  any  of  you,  any- 
way." 


FANNY   HERSELF  45 

At  once,  **Fanny's  stuck  on  Clar-ence!  Fanny's 
stuck  on  Clar-ence !" 

Fanny  picked  up  her  somewhat  battered  Zola  from 
where  it  had  flown  at  her  first  onslaught.  "It's  a  lie !" 
she  shouted.     And  fled,  followed  by  the  hateful  chant. 

She  came  in  at  the  back  door,  trying  to  look  casual. 
But  Mattie's  keen  eye  detected  the  marks  of  battle, 
even  while  her  knife  turned  the  frying  potatoes. 

"Fanny  Brandeis!  Look  at  your  sweater!  And 
your  hair!" 

Fanny  glanced  down  at  the  torn  pocket  dangling 
untidily.  "Oh,  that!"  she  said  airily.  And,  passing 
the  kitchen  table,  deftly  filched  a  slice  of  cold  veal 
from  the  platter,  and  mounted  the  back  stairs  to  her 
room.  It  was  a  hungry  business,  this  fighting.  When 
Mrs.  Brandeis  came  in  at  six  her  small  daughter  was 
demurely  reading.  At  supper  time  Mrs.  Brandeis 
looked  up  at  her  daughter  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 

"Fanny !  There's  a  scratch  on  your  cheek  from  your 
eye  to  your  chin." 

Fanny  put  up  her  hand.     "Is  there?" 

"Why,  you  must  have  felt  it.    How  did  you  get  it?*' 

Fanny  said  nothing.  "I'll  bet  she  was  fighting,"  said 
Theodore  with  the  intuitive  knowledge  that  one  child 
has  of  another's  ways.  ' 

"Fanny !"    The  keen  brown  eyes  were  upon  her. 

"Some  boys  were  picking  on  Clarence  Heyl,  and  it 
made  me  mad.     They  called  him  names." 

"What  names.?" 

"Oh,  names." 

"Fanny  dear,  if  you're  going  to  fight  every  time  you 
hear  that  name " 

Fanny  thought  of  the  torn  sweater,  the  battered 
Zola,  the  scratched  cheek.  "It  is  pretty  expensive," 
she  said  reflectively. 

After  supper  she  settled  down  at  once  to  her  book. 
Theodore  would  labor  over  his  algebra  after  the  din- 


46  FANNY   HERSELF 

ing-room  table  was  cleared.  He  stuck  his  cap  on  his 
head  now,  and  slammed  out  of  the  door  for  a  half- 
hour's  play  under  the  corner  arc-light.  Fanny  rarely 
brought  books  from  school,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  get 
on  rather  brilliantly,  especially  in  the  studies  she  liked. 
During  that  winter  following  her  husband's  death  Mrs. 
Brandeis  had  a  way  of  playing  solitaire  after  supper; 
one  of  the  simpler  forms  of  the  game.  It  seemed  to  help 
her  to  think  out  the  day's  problems,  and  to  soothe  her 
at  the  same  time.  She  would  turn  down  the  front  of 
the  writing  desk,  and  draw  up  the  piano  stool. 

All  through  that  winter  Fanny  seemed  to  remember 
reading  to  the  slap-slap  of  cards,  and  the  whir  of  their 
shuffling.  In  after  years  she  was  never  able  to  pick 
up  a  volume  of  Dickens  without  having  her  mind  hark 
back  to  those  long,  quiet  evenings.  She  read  a  great 
deal  of  Dickens  at  that  time.  She  had  a  fine  contempt 
for  his  sentiment,  and  his  great  ladies  bored  her.  She 
[did  not  know  that  this  was  because  they  were  badly 
idrawn.  The  humor  she  loved,  and  she  read  and  reread 
'the  passages  dealing  with  Samuel  Weller,  and  Mr. 
Micawber,  and  Sairey  Gamp,  and  Fanny  Squeers.  It 
was  rather  trying  to  read  Dickens  before  supper,  she 
had  discovered.  Pickwick  Papers  was  fatal,  she  had 
found.  It  sent  one  to  the  pantry  in  a  sort  of  trance, 
to  ransack  for  food — cookies,  apples,  cold  meat,  any- 
thing. But  whatever  one  found,  it  always  fell  short  of 
the  succulent  sounding  beefsteak  pies,  and  saddles  of 
mutton,  and  hot  pineapple  toddy  of  the  printed  page. 

To-night  Mrs.  Brandeis,  coming  in  from  the  kitchen 
after  a  conference  with  Mattie,  found  her  daughter  in 
conversational  mood,  though  book  in  hand. 

"Mother,  did  you  ever  read  this.'^"  She  held  up 
"The  Ladies'  Paradise." 

"Yes;  but  child  alive,  what  ever  made  you  get  it.^ 
That  isn't  the  kind  of  thing  for  you  to  read.  Oh,  I 
wish  I  had  more  time  to  give " 


FANNY   HERSELF  47 

Fanny  leaned  forward  eagerly.  "It  made  me  think 
a  lot  of  you.  You  know — the  way  the  big  store  was 
crushing  the  little  one,  and  everything.  Like  the  thing 
you  were  talking  to  that  man  about  the  other  day. 
You  said  it  was  killing  the  small-town  dealer,  and  he 
said  some  day  it  would  be  illegal,  and  you  said  you'd 
never  live  to  see  it.'' 

"Oh,  that!  We  were  talking  about  the  mail-order 
business,  and  how  hard  it  was  to  compete  with  it,  when 
the  farmers  bought  everything  from  a  catalogue,  and 
had  whole  boxes  of  household  goods  expressed  to  them. 
I  didn't  know  you  were  listening,  Fanchen." 

"I  was.  I  almost  always  do  when  you  and  some 
traveling  man  or  somebody  like  that  are  talking.  It — 
it's  interesting." 

Fanny  went  back  to  her  book  then.  But  Molly 
Brandeis  sat  a  moment,  eyeing  her  queer  little  daugh- 
ter thoughtfully.  Then  she  sighed,  and  laid  out  her 
cards  for  solitaire.  By  eight  o'clock  she  was  usually 
so  sleepy  that  she  would  fall,  dead-tired,  asleep  on  the 
worn  leather  couch  in  the  sitting-room.  She  must  have 
been  fearfully  exhausted,  mind  and  body.  The  house 
would  be  very  quiet,  except  for  Mattie,  perhaps,  mov- 
ing about  in  the  kitchen  or  in  her  corner  room  up- 
stairs. Sometimes  the  weary  woman  on  the  couch 
would  start  suddenly  from  her  sleep  and  cry  out, 
choked  and  gasping,  "No !  No !  No  !"  The  children 
would  jump,  terrified,  and  come  running  to  her  at  first, 
but  later  they  got  used  to  it,  and  only  looked  up  to 
say,  when  she  asked  them,  bewildered,  what  it  was  that 
wakened  her,  "You  had  the  no-no-nos." 

She  had  never  told  of  the  thing  that  made  her  start 
out  of  her  sleep  and  cry  out  like  that.  Perhaps  it  was 
just  the  protest  of  the  exhausted  body  and  the  over- 
wrought nerves.  Usually,  after  that,  she  would  sit  up, 
haggardly,  and  take  the  hairpins  out  of  her  short  thick 
hair,  and  announce  her  intention  of  going  to  bed.    She 


48  FANNY   HERSELF 

always  insisted  that  the  children  go  too,  though  they 
often  won  an  extra  half  hour  by  protesting  and  teas- 
ing. It  was  a  good  thing  for  them,  these  nine  o'clock 
;  bed  hours,  for  it  gave  them  the  tonic  sleep  that  their 
young,  high-strung  natures  demanded. 

"Come,  children,"  she  would  say,  yawning. 

"Oh,  mother,  please  just  let  me  finish  this  chapter!" 

"How  much?" 

"Just  this  little  bit.    See?    Just  this." 

"Well,  just  that,  then,"  for  Mrs.  Brandeis  was  a 
reasonable  woman,  and  she  had  the  book-lover's  knowl- 
edge of  the  fascination  of  the  unfinished  chapter. 

Fanny  and  Theodore  were  not  always  honest  about 
the  bargain.     They  would  gallop,  hot-cheeked,  through 
•the  allotted  chapter.     Mrs.  Brandeis  would  have  fallen 
■  into  a  doze,  perhaps.    And  the  two  conspirators  would 
read  on,  turning  the  leaves  softly  and  swiftly,  gulping 
the  pages,  cramming  them  down  in  an  orgy  of  mental 
bolting,  like  naughty  children  stuffing  cake  when  their 
mother's  back  is  turned.     But  the  very  concentration 
.  of  their  dread  of  waking  her  often  brought  about  the 
feared  result.     Mrs.  Brandeis  would  start  up  rather 
wildly,  look  about  her,  and  see  the  two  buried,  red- 
cheeked  and  eager,  in  their  books.  ? 
I      "Fanny !    Theodore !    Come  now !    Not  another  min- 
ute!" 

'      Fanny,  shameless  little  glutton,  would  try  it  again. 
"Just  to  the  end  of  this  chapter !  Just  this  weenty  bit !" 

"Fiddlesticks!  You've  read  four  chapters  since  I 
spoke  to  you  the  last  time.     Come  now !" 

Molly  Brandeis  would  see  to  the  doors,  and  the  win- 
dows, and  the  clock,  and  then,  waiting  for  the  weary 
little  figures  to  climb  the  stairs,  would  turn  out  the 
light,  and,  hairpins  in  one  hand,  corset  in  the  other, 
perhaps,  mount  to  bed. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  little  household  would  be  sleep- 
ing, the  children  sweetly  and  dreamlessly,  the  tired 


FANNY   HERSELF  49 

woman  restlessly  and  fitfully,  her  overwrought  brain 
still  surging  with  the  day's  problems.  It  was  not  like 
a  household  at  rest,  somehow.  It  was  like  a  spirited 
thing  standing,  quivering  for  a  moment,  its  nerves 
tense,  its  muscles  twitching. 

Perhaps  you  have  quite  forgotten  that  here  were  to 
be  retailed  two  epochal  events  in  Fanny  Brandeis's  life. 
If  you  have  remembered,  you  will  have  guessed  that  the  , 
one  was  the  reading  of  that  book  of  social  protest,   X'^ 
though  its  writer  has  fallen  into  disfavor  in  these  fickle     )     * 
days.     The  other  was  the  wild  and  unladylike  street' 
brawl  in  which  she  took  part  so  that  a  terrified  and 
tortured  little  boy  might  escape  his  tormentors. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THERE  was  no  hard  stock  in  Brandeis'  Bazaar 
now.  The  packing-room  was  always  littered  with 
straw  and  excelsior  dug  from  hogsheads  and  great 
crates.  Aloysius  lorded  it  over  a  small  red-headed 
satellite  who  disappeared  inside  barrels  and  dived  head 
first  into  huge  boxes,  coming  up  again  with  a  lamp,  or 
a  doll,  or  a  piece  of  glassware,  like  a  magician.  Fanny, 
perched  on  an  overturned  box,  used  to  watch  him,  fas- 
cinated, while  he  laboriously  completed  a  water  set, 
or  a  tea  set.  A  preliminary  dive  would  bring  up  the 
first  of  a  half  dozen  related  pieces,  each  swathed  in 
tissue  paper.  A  deft  twist  on  the  part  of  the  attend- 
ant Aloysius  would  strip  the  paper  wrappings  and  dis- 
close a  ruby-tinted  tumbler,  perhaps.  Another  dive, 
and  another,  until  six  gleaming  glasses  stood  revealed, 
like  chicks  without  a  hen  mother.  A  final  dip,  much 
scratching  and  burrowing,  during  which  armfuls  of 
hay  and  excelsior  were  thrown  out,  and  then  the  red- 
headed genie  of  the  barrel  would  emerge,  flushed  and 
triumphant,  with  the  water  pitcher  itself,  thus  com- 
pleting the  happy  family. 

Aloysius,  meanwhile,  would  regale  her  with  one  of 
those  choice  bits  of  gossip  he  had  always  about  him, 
like  a  jewel  concealed,  and  only  to  be  brought  out  for 
the  appreciative.  Mrs.  Brandeis  disapproved  of  store 
gossip,  and  frowned  on  Sadie  and  Pearl  whenever  she 
found  them,  their  heads  close  together,  their  stifled 
shrieks  testifying  to  his  wit.  There  were  times  when 
Molly  Brandeis  herself  could  not  resist  the  spell  of 
his  tongue.     No  one  knew  where  Aloysius  got  his  in- 

50 


FANNY   HERSELF  51 

formation.  He  had  news  that  Winnebago's  two  daily 
papers  never  could  get,  and  wouldn't  have  dared  to 
print  if  they  had. 

"Did  you  hear  about  Myrtle  Krieger,"  he  would  be- 
gin, "that's  marryin'  the  Hempel  boy  next  month? 
The  one  in  the  bank.  She's  exhibiting  her  trewsow  at 
the  Outagamie  County  Fair  this  week,  for  the  hand- 
work and  embroid'ry  prize.  Ain't  it  brazen?  They 
say  the  crowd's  so  thick  around  the  table  that  they 
had  to  take  down  the  more  pers'nal  pieces.  The  first 
day  of  the  fair  the  grand-stand  was,  you  might  say, 
empty,  even  when  they  was  pullin'  off  the  trottin'  races 
and  the  balloon  ascension.  It's  funny — ain't  it?^ — ^how 
them  garmints  that  you  wouldn't  turn  for  a  second 
look  at  on  the  clothesline  or  in  a  store  winda'  becomes 
kind  of  wicked  and  interestin'  the  minute  they  get  what 
they  call  the  human  note.  There  it  lays,  that  virgin 
lawnjerie,  for  all  the  county  to  look  at,  with  pink  rib- 
bons run  through  everything,  and  the  poor  Krieger  girl 
never  dreamin'  she's  doin'  somethin'  indelicate.  She 
says  yesterday  if  she  wins  the  prize  she's  going  to  put 
it  toward  one  of  these  kitchen  cabinets." 

I  wish  we  could  stop  a  while  with  Aloysius.  He  is 
well  worth  it.  Aloysius,  who  looked  a  pass  between 
Ichabod  Crane  and  Smike;  Aloysius,  with  his  bit  of 
scandal  burnished  with  wit;  who,  after  a  long,  hard 
Saturday,  would  go  home  to  scrub  the  floor  of  the 
dingy  lodgings  where  he  lived  with  his  invalid  mother, 
and  who  rose  in  the  cold  dawn  of  Sunday  morning  to 
go  to  early  mass,  so  that  he  might  return  to  cook  the 
dinner  and  wait  upon  the  sick  woman.  Aloysius,  whose 
trousers  flapped  grotesquely  about  his  bony  legs,  and 
whose  thin  red  wrists  hung  awkwardly  from  his  too- 
short  sleeves,  had  in  him  that  tender,  faithful  and 
courageous  stuff  of  which  unsung  heroes  are  made. 
And  he  adored  his  clever,  resourceful  boss  to  the  point 
of  imitation.    You  should  have  seen  him  trying  to  sell 


52  FANNY   HERSELF 

a  sled  or  a  doll's  go-cart  in  her  best  style.  But  vre 
cannot  stop  for  Aloysius.  He  is  irrelevant,  and  ir- 
relevant matter  halts  the  progress  of  a  story.  Any 
one,  from  Barrie  to  Harold  Bell  Wright,  will  tell  you 
that  a  story,  to  be  successful,  must  march. 

We'll  keep  step,  then,  with  Molly  Brandeis  until  she 
drops  out  of  the  ranks.  There  is  no  detouring  with 
Mrs.  Brandeis  for  a  leader.  She  is  the  sort  that,  once 
her  face  is  set  toward  her  goal,  looks  neither  to  right 
nor  left  until  she  has  reached  it. 

When  Fanny  Brandeis  was  fourteen,  and  Theodore 
was  not  quite  sixteen,  a  tremendous  thing  happened. 
Schabelitz,  the  famous  violinist,  came  to  Winnebago 
to  give  a  concert  under  the  auspices  of  the  Young 
Men's  Sunday  Evening  Club. 

The  Young  Men's  Sunday  Evening  Club  of  the  Con- 
gregational Church  prided  itself  (and  justifiably)  on 
what  the  papers  called  its  "auspices."  It  scorned  to 
present  to  Winnebago  the  usual  lyceum  attractions — 
Swiss  bell  ringers,  negro  glee  clubs,  and  Family  Fours. 
Instead,  Schumann-Heink  sang  her  lieder  for  them; 
McCutcheon  talked  and  cartooned  for  them;  Madame 
Bloomfield-Zeisler  played.  Winnebago  was  one  of  those 
wealthy  little  Mid-Western  towns  whose  people  appre- 
ciate the  best  and  set  out  to  acquire  it  for  them- 
selves. 

To  the  Easterner,  Winnebago,  and  Oshkosh,  and 
Kalamazoo,  and  Emporia  are  names  invented  to  get  a 
laugh  from  a  vaudeville  audience.  Yet  it  is  the  people 
from  Winnebago  and  Emporia  and  the  like  whom  you 
meet  in  Egypt,  and  the  Catalina  Islands,  and  at  Hono- 
lulu, and  St.  Moritz.  It  is  in  the  Winnebago  living- 
room  that  you  are  likely  to  find  a  prayer  rug  got  in 
Persia,  a  bit  of  gorgeous  glaze  from  China,  a  scarf 
from  some  temple  in  India,  and  on  it  a  book,  hand- 
tooled  and  rare.  The  Winnebagoans  seem  to  know 
what  is  being  served  and  worn,  from  salad  to  veilings. 


FANNY   HERSELF  53 

surprisingly  soon  after  New  York  has  informed  itself 
on  those  subjects.  The  7:52  Northwestern  morning 
train  out  of  Winnebago  was  always  pretty  comfortably 
crowded  with  shoppers  who  were  taking  a  five-hour 
run  down  to  Chicago  to  get  a  hat  and  see  the  new 
musical  show  at  the  Illinois. 

So  Schabelitz's  coming  was  an  event,  but  not  an  un- 
precedented one.  Except  to  Theodore.  Theodore  had 
a  ticket  for  the  concert  (his  mother  had  seen  to  that), 
and  he  talked  of  nothing  else.  He  was  going  with  his 
violin  teacher,  Emil  Bauer.  There  were  strange  stories 
as  to  why  Emil  Bauer,  with  his  gift  of  teaching,  should 
choose  to  bury  himself  in  this  obscure  little  Wisconsin 
town.  It  was  known  that  he  had  acquaintance  with 
the  great  and  famous  of  the  musical  world.  The  East 
End  set  fawned  upon  him,  and  his  studio  suppers  were 
the  exclusive  social  events  in  Winnebago. 

Schabelitz  was  to  play  in  the  evening.  At  half  past 
three  that  afternoon  there  entered  Brandeis'  Bazaar 
a  white-faced,  wide-eyed  boy  who  was  Theodore  Bran- 
deis; a  plump,  voluble,  and  excited  person  who  was 
Emil  Bauer;  and  a  short,  stocky  man  who  looked 
rather  like  a  foreign-born  artisan — plumber  or  steam- 
fitter — in  his  Sunday  clothes.  This  was  Levine  Scha- 
belitz. 

Molly  Brandeis  was  selling  a  wash  boiler  to  a  fussy 
housewife  who,  in  her  anxiety  to  assure  herself  of  the 
flawlessness  of  her  purchase,  had  done  everything  but 
climb  inside  it.  It  had  early  been  instilled  in  the  minds 
of  Mrs.  Brandeis's  children  that  she  was  never  to  be 
approached  when  busy  with  a  customer.  There  were 
times  when  they  rushed  into  the  store  bursting  with 
news  or  plans,  but  they  had  learned  to  control  their 
eagerness.  This,  though,  was  no  ordinary  news  that 
had  blanched  Theodore's  face.  At  sight  of  the  three, 
Mrs.  Brandeis  quietly  turned  her  boiler  purchaser  over 
to  Pearl  and  came  forward  from  the  rear  of  the  store. 


54  FANNY   HERSELF 

"Oh,  Mother !"  cried  Theodore,  an  hysterical  note  in 
his  voice.     "Oh,  Mother!" 

And  in  that  moment  Molly  Brandeis  knew.  Emil 
Bauer  introduced  them,  floridly.  Molly  Brandeis  held 
out  her  hand,  and  her  keen  brown  eyes  looked  straight 
and  long  into  the  gifted  Russian's  pale  blue  ones.  Ac- 
cording to  all  rules  he  should  have  started  a  dramatic 
speech,  beginning  with  "Madame !"  hand  on  heart.  But 
Schabelitz  the  great  had  sprung  from  Schabelitz  the 
peasant  boy,  and  in  the  process  he  had  managed,  some- 
how, to  retain  the  simplicity  which  was  his  charm. 
Still,  there  was  something  queer  and  foreign  in  the  way 
he  bent  over  Mrs.  Brandeis's  hand.  We  do  not  bow 
like  that  in  Winnebago. 

"Mrs.  Brandeis,  I  am  honored  to  meet  you." 

"And  I  to  meet  you,"  replied  the  shopkeeper  in  the 
black  sateen  apron. 

"I  have  just  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your  son 
play,"  began  Schabelitz. 

"Mr.  Bauer  called  me  out  of  my  economics  class  at 
school,  Mother,  and  said  that " 

"Theodore!"     Theodore  subsided. 

"He  is  only  a  boy,"  went  on  Schabelitz,  and  put  one 
hand  on  Theodore's  shoulder.  "A  very  gifted  boy.  I 
hear  hundreds.  Oh,  how  I  suffer,  sometimes,  to  listen 
to  their  devilish  scraping!  To-day,  my  friend  Bauer 
met  me  with  that  old  plea,  'You  must  hear  this  pupil 
play.  He  has  genius.'  'Bah !  Grenius !'  I  said,  and  I 
swore  at  him  a  little,  for  he  is  my  friend,  Bauer.  But  I 
went  with  him  to  his  studio — Bauer,  that  is  a  remark- 
ably fine  place  you  have  there,  above  that  drug  store; 
a  room  of  exceptional  proportions.  And  those  rugs, 
let  me  tell  you " 

"Never  mind  the  rugs,  Schabelitz,  Mrs.  Brandeis 
here " 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!  Well,  dear  lady,  this  boy  of  yours 
will  be  a  great  violinist  if  he  is  willing  to  work,  and 


FANNY   HERSELF  55 

work,  and  work.  He  has  what  you  in  America  call  the 
spark.  To  make  it  a  flame  he  must  work,  always  work. 
You  must  send  him  to  Dresden,  under  Auer." 

"Dresden!"  echoed  Molly  Brandeis  faintly,  and  put 
one  hand  on  the  table  that  held  the  fancy  cups  and 
saucers,  and  they  jingled  a  little. 

"A  year,  perhaps,  first,  in  New  York  with  Wolf- 
sohn." 

Wolfsohn !  New  York !  Dresden !  It  was  too  much 
even  for  Molly  Brandeis'  well-balanced  brain.  She 
was  conscious  of  feeling  a  little  dizzy.  At  that  mo- 
ment Pearl  approached  apologetically.  "Pardon  me,  ' 
Mis'  Brandeis,  but  Mrs.  Trost  wants  to  know  if  you'll 
send  the  boiler  special  this  afternoon.  She  wants  it  for 
the  washing  early  to-morrow  morning." 

That  served  to  steady  her. 

"Tell  Mrs.  Trost  I'll  send  it  before  six  to-night." 
Her  eyes  rested  on  Theodore's  face,  flushed  now,  and 
glowing.  Then  she  turned  and  faced  Schabelitz 
squarely.  "Perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  this  store 
is  our  support.  I  earn  a  living  here  for  myself  and 
my  two  children.  You  see  what  it  is — just  a  novelty 
and  notion  store  in  a  country  town.  I  speak  of  this 
because  it  is  the  important  thing.  I  have  known  for  a 
long  time  that  Theodore's  playing  was  not  the  playing 
of  the  average  boy,  musically  gifted.  So  what  you  teU  ! 
me  does  not  altogether  surprise  me.  But  when  you  say  ' 
Dresden — well,  from  Brandeis'  Bazaar  in  Winnebago, 
Wisconsin,  to  Auer,  in  Dresden,  Germany,  is  a  long 
journey  for  one  afternoon." 

"But  of  course  you  must  have  time  to  think  it  over. 
It  must  be  brought  about,  somehow." 

"Somehow "      Mrs.    Brandeis    stared    straight 

ahead,  and  you  could  almost  hear  that  indomitable  will 
of  hers  working,  crashing  over  obstacles,  plowing 
through  difficulties.  Theodore  watched  her,  breath- 
less, as  though  expecting  an  immediate  solution.     His 


56  FANNY   HERSELF 

mother's  eyes  met  his  own  intent  ones,  and  at  that  her 
mobile  mouth  quirked  in  a  sudden  smile.  "You  look  as 
if  you  expected  pearls  to  pop  out  of  my  mouth,  son. 
And,  by  the  way,  if  you're  going  to  a  concert  this  eve- 
ning don't  you  think  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  squan- 
der an  hour  on  study  this  afternoon?  You  may  be 
a  musical  prodigy,  but  geometry's  geometry." 

"Oh,  Mother!     Please!" 

''I  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Schabelitz  and  Mr.  Bauer, 
alone."  She  patted  his  shoulder,  and  the  last  pat  ended 
in  a  gentle  push.     "Run  along." 

"I'll  work.  Mother.  You  know  perfectly  well  I'll 
work."  But  he  looked  so  startlingly  like  his  father  as 
he  said  it  that  Mrs.  Brandeis  felt  a  clutching  at  her 
heart. 

Theodore  out  of  the  way,  they  seemed  to  find  very 
little  to  discuss,  after  all.  Schabelitz  was  so  quietly 
certain,  Bauer  so  triumphantly  proud. 

Said  Schabelitz,  "Wolfsohn,  of  course,  receives  ten 
dollars  a  lesson  ordinarily." 

"Ten  dollars!" 

"But  a  pupil  like  Theodore  is  in  the  nature  of  an 
investment,"  Bauer  hastened  to  explain.  "An  adver- 
tisement. After  hearing  him  play,  and  after  what 
Schabelitz  here  will  have  to  say  for  him,  Wolfsohn 
will  certainly  give  Theodore  lessons  for  nothing,  or 
next  to  nothing.  You  remember" — proudly — "I  of- 
fered to  teach  him  without  charge,  but  you  would  not 
have  it." 

Schabelitz  smote  his  friend  sharply  on  the  shoulder. 
'  "The  true  musician!  Oh,  Bauer,  Bauer!  That  you 
should  bury  yourself  in  this " 

But  Bauer  stopped  him  with  a  gesture.  "Mrs.  Bran- 
deis is  a  busy  woman.  And  as  she  says,  this  thing  needs 
thinking  over." 

"After  all,"  said  Mrs.  Brandeis,  "there  isn't  much 
to   think   about.      I  know  just  where  I   stand.      It's 


FANNY   HERSELF  57 

a    case    of    mathematics,    that's    all.      This    business 
of   mine    is   just   beginning   to    pay.      From   now   on 
I    shall   be    able   to    save    something   every   year.      It 
might  be  enough  to  cover  his  musical  education.     It] 
would  mean  that  Fanny — my  daughter — and  I  would/ 
have  to  give  up  everything.     For  myself,  I  should  bej 
only  too  happy,  too  proud.     But  it  doesn't  seem  fair  vy 
to  her.    After  all,  a  girl " 

"It  isn't  fair,"  broke  in  Schabelitz.  "It  isn't  fair. 
But  that  is  the  way  of  genius.  It  never  is  fair.  It 
takes,  and  takes,  and  takes.  I  know.  My  mother 
could  tell  you,  if  she  were  alive.  She  sold  the  little 
farm,  and  my  sisters  gave  up  their  dowries,  and  with 
them  their  hopes  of  marriage,  and  they  lived  on  bread 
and  cabbage.  That  was  not  to  pay  for  my  lessons. 
They  never  could  have  done  that.  It  was  only  to  send 
me  to  Moscow.  We  were  very  poor.  They  must  have 
starved.  I  have  come  to  know,  since,  that  it  was  not 
worth  it.     That  nothing  could  be  worth  it." 

"But  it  was  worth  it.  Your  mother  would  do  it  aU 
over  again,  if  she  had  the  chance.  That's  what  we're 
for." 

Bauer  pulled  out  his  watch  and  uttered  a  horrified 
exclamation.  "Himmel!  Four  o'clock!  And  I  have 
a  pupil  at  four."  He  turned  hastily  to  Mrs.  Brandeis. 
"I  am  giving  a  little  supper  in  my  studio  after  the 
concert  to-night." 

"Oh,  Gott !"  groaned  Schabelitz. 

"It  is  in  honor  of  Schabelitz  here.  You  see  how 
overcome  he  is.  Will  you  let  me  bring  Theodore  back 
with  me  after  the  concert?  There  will  be  some  music, 
and  perhaps  he  will  play  for  us." 

Schabelitz  bent  again  in  his  queer  little  foreign  bow. 
**And  you,  of  course,  will  honor  us,  Mrs.  Brandeis." 
He  had  never  lived  in  Winnebago. 

"Oh,  certainly,"  Bauer  hastened  to  say.     He  had. 

**I!"     MoUy  Brandeis  looked  down  at  her  apron. 


58  FANNY   HERSELF 

and  stroked  it  with  her  fingers.  Then  she  looked  up 
with  a  little  smile  that  was  not  so  pleasant  as  her  smile 
usually  was.  There  had  flashed  across  her  quick  mind 
a  picture  of  Mrs.  G.  Manville  Smith.  Mrs.  G.  Man- 
ville  Smith,  in  an  evening  gown  whose  decoUetage  was 
discussed  from  the  Haley  House  to  Gerretson's  depart- 
ment store  next  morning,  was  always  a  guest  at  Bauer's 
studio  affairs.  "Thank  you,  but  it  is  impossible.  And 
Theodore  is  only  a  schoolboy.  Just  now  he  needs,  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world,  nine  hours  of  sleep 
every  night.  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  studio 
suppers  later.  When  a  boy's  voice  is  changing,  and 
he  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with  his  hands  and  feet, 
he  is  better  off  at  home." 

"God!       These     mothers!"     exclaimed     Schabelitz. 
'     "What  do  they  not  know!" 

"I  suppose  you  are  right."  Bauer  was  both  rueful 
and  relieved.  It  would  have  been  fine  to  show  off  Theo- 
dore as  his  pupil  and  Schabelitz's  proteg^.  But  Mrs. 
Brandeis  ?  No,  that  would  never  do.  "Well,  I  must  go. 
We  will  talk  about  this  again,  Mrs.  Brandeis.  In  two 
weeks  Schabelitz  will  pass  through  Winnebago  again  on 
his  way  back  to  Chicago.  Meanwhile  he  will  write 
Wolfsohn.    I  also.     So !    Come,  Schabelitz !" 

He  turned  to  see  that  gentleman  strolling  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  notion  counter  behind  which  his  expert 
eye  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Sadie  in  her  white  shirt- 
waist and  her  trim  skirt.  Sadie  always  knew  what  they 
were  wearing  on  State  Street,  Chicago,  half  an  hour 
after  Mrs.  Brandeis  returned  from  one  of  her  buying 
t  trips.  Shirtwaists  had  just  come  in,  and  with  them 
j  those  neat  leather  belts  with  a  buckle,  and  about  the 
throat  they  were  wearing  folds  of  white  satin  ribbon, 
smooth  and  high  and  tight,  the  two  ends  tied  pertly 
at  the  back.  Sadie  would  never  be  the  saleswoman 
that  Pearl  was,  but  her  unfailing  good  nature  and  her 
cheery  self-confidence  made  her  an  asset  in  the  store. 


FANNY   HERSELF  59 

Besides,  she  was  pretty.  Mrs.  Brandeis  knew  the  value 
of  a  pretty  clerk. 

At  the  approach  of  this  stranger  Sadie  leaned  coyly 
against  the  stocking  rack  and  patted  her  paper  sleeve- 
lets that  were  secured  at  wrist  and  elbow  with  elastic 
bands.  Her  method  was  sure  death  to  traveling  men. 
She  prepared  now  to  try  it  on  the  world-famous  vir- 
tuoso. The  ease  with  which  she  succeeded  surprised 
even  Sadie,  accustomed  though  she  was  to  conquest. 

"Come,  come,  Schabelitz!"  said  Bauer  again.  "I 
must  get  along." 

*'Then  go,  my  friend.  Go  along  and  make  your 
preparations  for  that  studio  supper.  The  only  inter- 
esting woman  in  Winnebago — "  he  bowed  to  Mrs.  Bran- 
deis— "wiU  not  be  there.  I  know  them,  these  small- 
town society  women,  with  their  imitation  city  ways. 
And  bony!  Always!  I  am  enjoying  myself.  I  shall 
stay  here." 

And  he  did  stay.  Sadie,  talking  it  over  afterward 
with  Pearl  and  Aloysius,  put  it  thus: 

"They  say  he's  the  grandest  violin  player  in  the 
world.  Not  that  I  care  much  for  the  violin,  myself. 
Kind  of  squeaky,  I  always  think.  But  it  just  goes  to 
show  they're  all  alike.  Ain't  it  the  truth?  I  joUied 
him  just  like  I  did  Sam  Bloom,  of  Ganz  &  Pick,  Novel- 
ties, an  hour  before.  He  laughed  just  where  Sam  did. 
And  they  both  handed  me  a  line  of  talk  about  my  hair 
and  eyes,  only  Sam  said  I  was  a  doll,  and  this  Schabe- 
litz, or  whatever  his  name  is,  said  I  was  as  alluring  as 
a  Lorelei.  I  guess  he  thought  he  had  me  there,  but  I 
didn't  go  through  the  seventh  reader  for  nothing.  *If 
you  think  I'm  flattered,'  I  said  to  him,  ^you're  mis- 
taken. She  was  the  mess  who  used  to  sit  out  on  a  rock 
with  her  back  hair  down,  combing  away  and  singing 
like  mad,  and  keeping  an  eye  out  for  sailors  up  and 
down  the  river.  If  I  had  to  work  that  hard  to  get 
some  attention,'  I  said,  'I'd  give  up  the  struggle,  and 


60  FANNY   HERSELF 

settle  down  with  a  cat  and  a  teakettle.'  At  that  he  just 
threw  back  his  head  and  roared.  And  when  Mrs.  Bran- 
deis  came  up  he  said  something  about  the  wit  of  these 
American  women.  *Work  is  a  great  sharpener  of  wit 
— and  wits,'  Mrs.  Brandeis  said  to  him.  Tearl,  did 
Aloysius  send  Eddie  out  with  that  boiler,  special?' 
And  she  didn't  pay  any  more  attention  to  him,  or  make 
any  more  fuss  over  him,  than  she  would  to  a  traveler 
with  a  line  of  samples  she  wasn't  interested  in.  I  guess 
that's  why  he  had  such  a  good  time." 

Sadie  was  right.  That  was  the  reason.  Fanny,  com- 
ing into  the  store  half  an  hour  later,  saw  this  man  who 
had  swayed  thousands  with  his  music,  down  on  his  hands 
and  knees  in  the  toy  section  at  the  rear  of  Brandeis' 
Bazaar.  He  and  Sadie  and  Aloysius  were  winding  up 
toy  bears,  and  clowns,  and  engines,  and  carriages,  and 
sending  them  madly  racing  across  the  floor.  Some- 
times their  careening  career  was  threatened  with  dis- 
aster in  the  form  of  a  clump  of  brooms  or  a  stack  of 
galvanized  pails.  But  Schabelitz  would  scramble  for- 
ward with  a  shout  and  rescue  them  just  before  the  crash 
came,  and  set  them  deftly  off^  again  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

"This  I  must  have  for  my  boy  in  New  York."  He 
held  up  a  miniature  hook  and  ladder.  "And  this  wind- 
mill that  whirls  so  busily.  My  Leo  is  seven,  and  his 
head  is  full  of  engines,  and  motors,  and  things  that  run 
on  wheels.  He  cares  no  more  for  music,  the  little 
savage,  than  the  son  of  a  bricklayer." 

"Who  is  that  man?"  Fanny  whispered,  staring  at 
him. 

"Levine  Schabelitz." 

"Schabelitz!    Not  the— " 

"Yes." 

"But  he's  playing  on  the  floor  like — like  a  little  boy ! 
And  laughing!  Why,  Mother,  he's  just  like  anybody 
else,  only  nicer." 


FANNY   HERSELF  61 

If  Fanny  had  been  more  than  fourteen  her  mother 
might  have  told  her  that  all  really  great  people  are 
like  that,  finding  joy  in  simple  things.  I  think  that  is 
the  secret  of  their  genius — the  child  in  them  that  keeps  , 
their  viewpoint  fresh,  and  that  makes  us  children  again ' 
when  we  listen  to  them.  It  is  the  Schabelitzes  of  this 
world  who  can  shout  over  a  toy  engine  that  would  bore 
a  Bauer  to  death. 

Fanny  stood  looking  at  him  thoughtfully.  She  knew 
all  about  him.  Theodore's  talk  of  the  past  week  had 
accomplished  that.  Fanny  knew  that  here  was  a  man 
who  did  one  thing  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
She  thrilled  to  that  thought.  She  adored  the  quality 
in  people  that  caused  them  to  excel.  Schabelitz  had 
got  hold  of  a  jack-in-the-box,  and  each  time  the  absurd 
head  popped  out,  with  its  grin  and  its  squawk,  he 
laughed  hke  a  boy.  Fanny,  standing  behind  the  wrap- 
ping counter,  and  leaning  on  it  with  her  elbows  the  bet- 
ter to  see  this  great  man,  smiled  too,  as  her  flexible  spirii 
and  her  mobile  mind  caught  his  mood.  She  did  not 
know  she  was  smiling.  Neither  did  she  know  why  she 
suddenly  frowned  in  the  intensity  of  her  concentration, 
reached  up  for  one  of  the  pencils  on  the  desk  next  the 
wrapping  counter,  and  bent  over  the  topmost  sheet  of 
yellow  wrapping  paper  that  lay  spread  out  before  her. 
Her  tongue-tip  curled  excitedly  at  one  comer  of  her 
mouth.     Her  head  was  cocked  to  one  side. 

She  was  rapidly  sketching  a  crude  and  startling 
likeness  of  Levine  Schabehtz  as  he  stood  there  with  the 
ridiculous  toy  in  his  hand.  It  was  a  trick  she  often 
amused  herself  with  at  school.  She  had  drawn  her 
school-teacher  one  day  as  she  had  looked  when  gazing 
up  mto  the  eyes  of  the  visiting  superintendent,  who 
was  a  married  man.  Quite  innocently  and  uncon- 
sciously she  had  caught  the  adoring  look  in  the  eyes 
of  Miss  McCook,  the  teacher,  and  that  lady,  happen- 
ing upon  the  sketch  later,  had  dealt  with  Fanny  in  a 


62  FANNY   HERSELF 

manner  seemingly  unwarranted.  In  the  same  way  it 
was  not  only  the  exterior  likeness  of  the  man  which 
she  was  catching  now — the  pompadour  that  stood  stiffly 
perpendicular  like  a  brush;  the  square,  yellow  peasant 
teeth;  the  strong,  slender  hands  and  wrists;  the  stocky 
figure;  the  high  cheek  bones;  the  square-toed,  foreign- 
looking  shoes  and  the  trousers  too  wide  at  the  instep 
to  have  been  cut  by  an  American  tailor.  She  caught 
and  transmitted  to  paper,  in  some  uncanny  way,  the 
simplicity  of  the  man  who  was  grinning  at  the  jack- 
in-the-box  that  smirked  back  at  him.  Behind  the  veneer 
of  poise  and  polish  born  of  success  and  adulation  she 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Russian  peasant  boy  de- 
lighted with  the  crude  toy  in  his  hand.  And  she  put  it 
down  eagerly,  wetting  her  pencil  between  her  lips,  shad- 
ing here,  erasing  there. 

Mrs.  Brandeis,  bustling  up  to  the  desk  for  a  cus- 
tomer's change,  and  with  a  fancy  dish  to  be  wrapped, 
in  her  hand,  glanced  over  Fanny's  shoulder.  She  leaned 
closer.     "Why,  Fanny,  you  witch !" 

Fanny  gave  a  little  crow  of  delight  and  tossed  her 
head  in  a  way  that  switched  her  short  curls  back  from 
where  they  had  fallen  over  her  shoulders,  "It's  like 
him,  isn't  it.?" 

"It  looks  more  like  him  than  he  does  himself."  With 
which  Molly  Brandeis  unconsciously  defined  the  art  of 
cartooning. 

Fanny  looked  down  at  it,  a  smile  curving  her  lips. 
Mrs.  Brandeis,  dish  in  hand,  counted  her  change  ex- 
pertly from  the  till  below  the  desk,  and  reached  for 
the  sheet  of  wrapping  paper  just  beneath  that  on 
which  Fanny  had  made  her  drawing.  At  that  moment 
Schabelitz,  glancing  up,  saw  her,  and  came  forward, 
smiling,  the  jack-in-the-box  still  in  his  hand. 

"Dear  lady,  I  hope  I  have  not  entirely  disorganized 
your  shop.  I  have  had  a  most  glorious  time.  Would 
you  believe  it,  this  jack-in-the-box  looks  exactly — but 


FANNY   HERSELF  63 

exactly — ^like  my  manager,  Weber,  when  the  box-ofSce 
receipts  are  good.     He  grins  just — " 

And  then  his  eye  fell  on  the  drawing  that  Fanny  was 
trying  to  cover  with  one  brown  paw.  "Hello !  What's 
this?"  Then  he  looked  at  Fanny.  Then  he  grasped 
her  wrist  in  his  fingers  of  steel  and  looked  at  the  sketch 
that  grinned  back  at  him  impishly.  "Well,  I'm 
damned!"  exploded  Schabelitz  in  amusement,  and  sur- 
prise, and  appreciation.  And  did  not  apologize.  "And 
who  is  this  young  lady  with  the  sense  of  humor.'*" 

"This  is  my  Httle  girl,  Fanny." 

He  looked  down  at  the  rough  sketch  again,  with  its 
clean-cut  satire,  and  up  again  at  the  little  girl  in  the 
school  coat  and  the  faded  red  tam  o'  shanter,  who  was 
looking  at  him  shyly,  and  defiantly,  and  provokingly, 
all  at  once. 

"Your  little  girl  Fanny,  h'm?  The  one  who  is  to 
give  up  everything  that  the  boy  Theodore  may  become 
a  great  violinist."  He  bent  again  over  the  crude,  ( 
effective  cartoon,  then  put  a  forefinger  gently  under 
the  child's  chin  and  tipped  her  glowing  face  up  to  the 
light.  "I  am  not  so  sure  now  that  it  will  work.  As 
for  its  being  fair !    Why,  no !    No !" 

Fanny  waited  for  her  mother  that  evening,  and  they  i 
walked   home   together.      Their   step   and   swing  were 
very  much  alike,  now  that  Fanny's  legs  were  growing 
longer.     She  was  at  the  backfisch  age. 

"What  did  he  mean.  Mother,  when  he  said  that  about 
Theodore  being  a  great  violinist,  and  its  not  being 
fair?  What  isn't  fair?  And  how  did  he  happen  to  be 
in  the  store,  anyway  ?  He  bought  a  heap  of  toys,  didn't 
he?     I  suppose  he's  awfully  rich." 

"To-night,  when  Theodore's  at  the  concert,  I'll  tell 
you  what  he  meant,  and  all  about  it." 

"I'd  love  to  hear  him  play,  wouldn't  you?  I'd  just 
love  to." 

Over  Molly  Brandeis's  face  there  came  a  curious 


64  FANNY   HERSELF 

look.  ^'You  could  hear  him,  Fanny,  In  Theodore's 
place.  Theodore  would  have  to  stay  home  if  I  told 
him  to." 

Fanny's  eyes  and  mouth  grew  round  with  horror. 
^'Theodore  stay  home!  Why  Mrs. — ^MoUy — Bran- 
deis!"  Then  she  broke  into  a  little  relieved  laugh. 
**But  you're  just  fooling,  of  course." 

"No,  I'm  not.  If  you  really  want  to  go  I'll  tell 
Theodore  to  give  up  his  ticket  to  his  sister." 

"Well,  my  goodness !  I  guess  I'm  not  a  pig.  I 
wouldn't  have  Theodore  stay  home,  not  for  a  million 
dollars." 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't,"  said  Molly  Brandeis  as  they 
swung  down  Norris  Street.  And  she  told  Fanny  briefly 
of  what  Schabelitz  had  said  about  Theodore. 

It  was  typical  of  Theodore  that  he  ate  his  usual 
supper  that  night.  He  may  have  got  his  excitement 
vicariously  from  Fanny.  She  was  thrilled  enough  for 
two.  Her  food  lay  almost  untouched  on  her  plate. 
She  chattered  incessantly.  When  Theodore  began  to 
eat  his  second  baked  apple  with  cream,  her  outraged 
feelings  voiced  their  protest. 

"But,  Theodore,  I  don't  see  how  you  can !" 

"Can  what?" 

*'Eat  like  that.  When  you're  going  to  hear  him  play. 
And  after  what  he  said,  and  everything." 

"Well,  is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  starve  to 
death?" 

"But  I  don't  see  how  you  cevti^^  repeated  Fanny  help- 
lessly, and  looked  at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Brandeis 
reached  for  tji^  cream  pitcher  and  poured  a  little  more 
cream  over  Theodore's  baked  apple.  Even  as  she  did 
it  her  eyes  met  Fanny's,  and  in  them  was  a  certain  sly 
amusement,  a  little  gleam  of  fun,  a  look  that  said, 
''Neither  do  I."  Fanny  sat  back,  satisfied.  Here,  at 
least,  was  some  one  who  understood. 

At  half  past  seven  Theodore,  looking  very  brushed 


FANNY   HERSELF  65 

and  sleek,  went  off  to  meet  Emil  Bauer.  Mrs.  Bran- 
deis  had  looked  him  over,  and  had  said,  "Your  nails !" 
and  sent  liim  back  to  the  bathroom,  and  she  had  re- 
sisted the  desire  to  kiss  him  because  Theodore  disliked 
demonstration.  "He  hated  to  be  pawed  over,"  was  the 
way  he  put  it.  After  he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Brandeis  went 
» into  the  dining-room  where  Fanny  was  sitting.  Mattie 
had  cleared  the  table,  and  Fanny  was  busy  over  a  book 
and  a  tablet,  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  that  they  always 
used  for  studying.  It  was  one  of  the  rare  occasions 
when  she  had  brought  home  a  school  lesson.  It  was 
arithmetic,  and  Fanny  loathed  arithmetic.  She  had 
no  head  for  mathematics.  The  set  of  problems  were 
eighth-grade  horrors,  in  which  A  is  digging  a  well  20 
feet  deep  and  9  feet  wide;  or  in  which  A  and  B  are 
papering  two  rooms,  or  building  two  fences,  or  plaster- 
ing a  wall.  If  A  does  his  room  in  9^/^  days,  the  room 
being  IS  feet  high,  20  feet  long,  and  15%  feet  wide, 
how  long  will  it  take  B  to  do  a  room  14«  feet  higli^  11% 
feet,  etc. 

Fanny  hated  the  indefatigable  A  and  B  with  a  bitter 
personal  hatred.  And  as  for  that  occasional  person 
named  C,  who  complicated  matters  still  more — ! 

Sometimes  Mrs.  Brandeis  helped  to  disentangle 
Fanny  from  the  mazes  of  her  wall  paper  problems,  or 
dragged  her  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  well  when  it 
seemed  that  she  was  down  there  for  eternity  unless  a 
friendly  hand  rescued  her.  As  a  rule  she  insisted  that 
Fanny  crack  her  own  mathematical  nuts.  She  said  it 
was  good  mental  training,  not  to  speak  of  the  moral 
side  of  it.  But  to-night  she  bent  her  quick  mind  upon 
the  problems  that  were  puzzling  her  little  daughter,! 
and  cleared  them  up  in  no  time. 

When  Fanny  had  folded  her  arithmetic  papers  neatly 
inside  her  book  and  leaned  back  with  a  relieved  sigh 
Molly  Brandeis  bent  forward  in  the  lamplight  and  be- 
gan to   talk  very  soberly.      Fanny,   red-cheeked  and 


66  FANNY   HERSELF 

bright-eyed  from  her  recent  mental  struggles,  listened 
interestedly,  then  intently,  then  absorbedly.  She  at- 
tempted to  interrupt,  sometimes,  with  an  occasional, 
"But,  Mother,  how — "  but  Mrs.  Brandeis  shook  her 
head  and  went  on.  She  told  Fanny  a  few  things  about 
her  early  married  life — things  that  made  Fanny  look 
at  her  with  new  eyes.  She  had  always  thought  of  her 
mother  as  her  mother,  in  the  way  a  fourteen-year-old 
girl  does.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  this  mother 
person,  who  was  so  capable,  so  confident,  so  worldly- 
wise,,  had  once  been  a  very  young  bride,  with  her  life 
before  her,  and  her  hopes  stepping  high,  and  her  love 
keeping  time  with  her  hopes.  Fanny  heard,  fascinated, 
the  story  of  this  girl  who  had  married  against  the 
advice  of  her  family  and  her  friends. 

Molly  Brandeis  talked  curtly  and  briefly,  and  her 
very  brevity  and  lack  of  embroidering  details  made  the 
story  stand  out  with  stark  realism.  It  was  such  a 
story  of  courage,  and  pride,  and  indomitable  will,  and 
sheer  pluck  as  can  only  be  found  among  the  seemingly 
commonplace. 

"And  so,"  she  finished,  "I  used  to  wonder,  some- 
I  times,  whether  it  was  worth  while  to  keep  on,  and  what 
^  \  it  was  all  for.  And  now  I  know.  Theodore  is  going  to 
T^  '  make  up  for  everything.  Only  we'll  have  to  help  him, 
first.  It's  going  to  be  hard  on  you,  Fanchen.  I'm 
talking  to  you  as  if  you  were  eighteen,  instead  of  four- 
teen. But  I  want  you  to  understand.  That  isn't  fair 
to  you  either — my  expecting  you  to  understand.  Only 
I  don't  want  you  to  hate  me  too  much  when  you're  a 
woman,  and  I'm  gone,  and  you'll  remember — " 

"Why,  Mother,  what  in  the  world  are  you  talking 
about.?    Hate  you!" 

"For  what  I  took  from  you  to  give  to  him,  Fanny, 
You  don't  understand  now.  Things  must  be  made  easy 
for  Theodore.  It  will  mean  that  you  and  I  will  have 
to  scrimp  and  save.     Not  now  and  then,  but  all  the 


FANNY   HERSELF  67 

time,  rt  will  mean  that  we  can't  go  to  the  theater,  even 
occasionally,  or  to  lectures,  or  concerts.  It  will  mean 
that  your  clothes  won't  be  as  pretty  or  as  new  as  the 
other  girls'  clothes.  You'll  sit  on  the  front  porch 
evenings,  and  watch  them  go  by,  and  you'll  want  to 
go  too." 

"As  if  I  cared."  . -^^ 

"But  you  will  care.     I  know.     I  know.     It's  easy! 
enough  to  talk  about  sacrifice  in  a  burst  of  feeling;, 
but   it's   the   everyday,    shriveling  grind   that's   hard. 
You'll  want  clothes,  and  books,  and  beaux,  and  educa- 
tion, and  you  ought  to  have  them.    They're  your  right,    j 
You  ought  to  have  them!"     Suddenly  Molly  Brandeis'    ! 
arms  were  folded  on  the  table,  and  her  head  came  down    ' 
on  her  arms  and  she  was  crying,  quietly,  horribly,  as  a 
man  cries.     Fanny  stared  at  her  a  moment  in  unbelief. 
She  had  not  seen  her  mother  cry  since  the  day  of  Fer- 
dinand Brandeis'   death.      She   scrambled   out   of  her 
chair  and  thrust  her  head  down  next  her  mother's, 
so  that  her  hot,  smooth  cheek  touched  the  wet,  cold 
one.   "Mother,  don't !  Don't  Molly  dearie.   I  can't  bear 
it.     I'm  going  to  cry  too.    Do  you  think  I  care  for  old 
dresses  and  things?     I  should  say  not.     It's  going  to 
be  fun  going  without  things.     It'll  be  like  having  a  se- 
cret or  something.     Now  stop,  and  let's  talk  about  it.'* 

Molly  Brandeis  wiped  her  eyes,  and  sat  up,  and 
smiled.  It  was  a  watery  and  wavering  smile,  but  it 
showed  that  she  was  mistress  of  herself  again. 

"No,"  she  said,  "we  just  won't  talk  about  it  any 
more.  I'm  tired,  that's  what's  the  matter  with  me,  and 
I  haven't  sense  enough  to  know  it.  I'll  tell  you  what. 
I'm  going  to  put  on  my  kimono,  and  you'll  make  some 
fudge.  Will  you?  We'll  have  a  party,  all  by  our- 
selves, and  if  Mattie  scolds  about  the  milk  to-morrow 
you  just  tell  her  I  said  you  could.  And  I  think  there 
are  some  walnut  meats  in  the  third  cocoa  can  on  the 
shelf  in  the  pantry.     Use  'em  all." 


CHAPTER    SIX 

THEODORE  came  home  at  twelve  o'clock  that 
night.  He  had  gone  to  Bauer's  studio  party  after 
all.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  deliberately  disobeyed 
his  mother  in  a  reaUy  big  thing.  Mrs.  Brandeis  and 
Fanny  had  nibbled  fudge  all  evening  (it  had  turned  out 
deliciously  velvety)  and  had  gone  to  bed  at  their  usual 
time.  At  half  past  ten  Mrs.  Brandeis  had  wakened 
with  the  instinctive  feeling  that  Theodore  was  not  in 
the  house.  She  lay  there,  wide  awake,  staring  into  the 
darkness  until  eleven.  Then  she  got  up  and  went  into 
his  room,  though  she  knew  he  was  not  there.  She  was 
not  worried  as  to  his  whereabouts  or  his  well-being. 
That  same  instinctive  feeling  told  her  where  he  was.  She 
was  very  angry,  and  a  little  terrified  at  the  significance 
of  his  act.  She  went  back  to  bed  again,  and  she  felt 
the  blood  pounding  in  her  head.  Molly  Brandeis  had 
a  temper,  and  it  was  surging  now,  and  beating  against 
the  barriers  of  her  self-control. 

She  told  herself,  as  she  lay  there,  that  she  must  deal 
with  him  coolly  and  firmly,  though  she  wanted  to  spank 
him.  The  time  for  spankings  was  past.  Some  one  was 
coming  down  the  street  with  a  quick,  light  step.  She 
sat  up  in  bed,  listening.  The  steps  passed  the  house, 
went  on.  A  half  hour  passed.  Some  one  turned  the 
corner,  whistling  blithely.  But,  no,  he  would  not  be 
whistling,  she  told  herself.  He  would  sneak  in,  quietly. 
It  was  a  little  after  twelve  when  she  heard  the  front 
door  open  (Winnebago  rarely  locked  its  doors).  She 
was  surprised  to  feel  her  heart  beating  rapidly.  He 
was  trying  to  be  quiet,  and  was  making  a  great  deal 
of  noise  about  it.    His  shoes  and  the  squeaky  fifth  stair 

63 


fanny;   herself  69 

alone  would  have  convicted  him.  The  imp  of  perversity 
in  Molly  Brandeis  made  her  smile,  angry  as  she  was, 
at  the  thought  of  how  furious  he  must  be  at  that 
stair. 

"Theodore  I"  she  called  quietly,  just  as  he  was  tip- 
toeing past  her  room. 

«Yeh.» 

*'Come  in  here.    And  turn  on  the  light." 

He  switched  on  the  light  and  stood  there  in  the  door- 
way. Molly  Brandeis,  sitting  up  in  bed  in  the  chilly 
room,  with  her  covers  about  her,  was  conscious  of  a 
little  sick  feeling,  not  at  what  he  had  done,  but  that 
a  son  of  hers  should  ever  wear  the  sullen,  defiant,  hang- 
dog look  that  disfigured  Theodore's  face  now. 

"Bauer's?" 

A  pause.     "Yes." 

"Why?" 

"I  just  stopped  in  there  for  a  minute  after  the  con- 
cert. I  didn't  mean  to  stay.  And  then  Bauer  intro- 
duced me  around  to  everybody.  And  then  they  asked 
me  to  play,  and — " 

"And  you  played  badly." 

"Well,  I  didn't  have  my  own  violin." 

"No  football  game  Saturday.  And  no  pocket  money 
this  week.     Go  to  bed." 

He  went,  breathing  hard,  and  muttering  a  little 
under  his  breath.  At  breakfast  next  morning  Fanny 
plied  him  with  questions  and  was  furious  at  his  cool 
uncommunicativeness. 

"Was  it  wonderful,  Theodore?  Did  he  play — oh — 
like  an  angel?" 

"Played  all  right.  Except  the  *Swan*  thing.  May- 
be he  thought  it  was  too  easy,  or  something,  but  I 
thought  he  murdered  it.  Pass  the  toast,  unless  you 
want  it  all." 

It  was  not  until  the  following  autumn  that  Theo- 


70  FANNY   HERSELF 

dore  went  to  New  York.  The  thing  that  had  seemed 
so  impossible  was  arranged.  He  was  to  live  in  Brooklyn 
with  a  distant  cousin  of  Ferdinand  Brandeis,  on  a  busi- 
ness basis,  and  he  was  to  come  into  New  York  three 
times  a  week  for  his  lessons.  Mrs.  Brandeis  took  him 
as  far  as  Chicago,  treated  him  to  an  extravagant  din- 
ner, put  him  on  the  train  and  with  difficulty  stifled  the 
impulse  to  tell  all  the  other  passengers  in  the  car  to 
look  after  her  Theodore.  He  looked  incredibly  grown 
up  and  at  ease  in  his  new  suit  and  the  hat  that  they 
had  wisely  bought  in  Chicago.  She  did  not  cry  at  all 
j  (in  the  train),  and  she  kissed  him  only  twice,  and  no 
I  man  can  ask  more  than  that  of  any  mother. 

Molly  Brandeis  went  back  to  Winnebago  and  the 
store  with  her  shoulders  a  little  more  consciously 
squared,  her  jaw  a  little  more  firmly  set.  There  was 
something  almost  terrible  about  her  concentrativeness. 
Together  she  and  Fanny  began  a  life  of  self-denial  of 
''i  which  only  a  woman  could  be  capable.  They  saved  in 
ways  that  only  a  woman's  mind  could  devise;  petty 
ways,  that  included  cream  and  ice,  and  clothes,  and 
candy.  It  was  rather  fun  at  first.  When  that  wore  off 
it  had  become  a  habit.  ,  Mrs.  Brandeis  made  two  reso- 
lutions regarding  Fanny.  One  was  that  she  should  have 
at  least  a  high  school  education,  and  graduate.  The 
other  that  she  should  help  in  the  business  of  the  store 
as  little  as  possible.  To  the  first  Fanny  acceded  gladly. 
^o  the  second  she  objected. 

"But  why?  If  you  can  work,  why  can't  I.''  I  could 
help  you  a  lot  on  Saturdays  and  at  Christmas  time, 
and  after  school." 

"I  don't  want  you  to,"  Mrs.  Brandeis  had  replied, 
almost  fiercely.  "I'm  giving  my  life  to  it.  That's 
enough.  I  don't  want  you  to  know  about  buying  and 
selling.  I  don't  want  you  to  know  a  bill  of  lading  from 
a  sales  slip  when  you  see  it.  I  don't  want  you  to  know 
whether  f.  o.  b.  is  a  wireless  signal  or  a  branch  of  the 


fannt:  herself  71 

Masons."  'At  which  Fanny  grinned.  No  one  appre- 
ciated her  mother's  humor  more  than  she. 

"But  I  do  know  already.  The  other  day  when  that 
fat  man  was  selling  you  those  go-carts  I  heard  him  say, 
T.  o.  b.  Buffalo,'  and  I  asked  Aloysius  what  it  meant, 
and  he  told  me." 

It  was  inevitable  that  Fanny  Brandeis  should  come 
to  know  these  things,  for  the  little  household  revolved 
about  the  store  on  Elm  Street.  By  the  time  she  was 
eighteen  and  had  graduated  from  the  Winnebago  high 
school,  she  knew  so  many  things  that  the  average  girl 
of  eighteen  did  not  know,  and  was  ignorant  of  so  many 
things  that  the  average  girl  of  eighteen  did  know,  that 
Winnebago  was  almost  justified  in  thinking  her  queer. 
She  had  had  a  joyous  time  at  school,  in  spite  of  algebra 
and  geometry  and  physics.  She  took  the  part  of  the 
heroine  in  the  senior  class  play  given  at  the  Winne- 
bago opera  house,  and  at  the  last  rehearsal  electrified 
those  present  by  announcing  that  if  Albert  Finkbein 
(who  played  the  dashing  Southern  hero)  didn't  kiss  her 
properly  when  the  curtain  went  down  on  the  first  act, 
just  as  he  was  going  into  battle,  she'd  rather  he  didn't 
kiss  her  at  all. 

*'He  just  makes  it  ridiculous,"  she  protested.  **He 
sort  of  gives  a  peck  two  inches  from  my  nose,  and  then 
giggles.  Everybody  will  laugh,  and  it'll  spoil  every- 
thing." 

With  the  rather  startled  elocution  teacher  backing 
her  she  rehearsed  the  bashful  Albert  in  that  kiss  until 
she  had  achieved  the  effect  of  realism  that  she  thought 
the  scene  demanded.  But  when,  on  the  school  sleigh- 
ing parties  and  hay  rides  the  boy  next  her  slipped  a 
wooden  and  uncertain  arm  about  her  waist  while  they 
all  were  singing  "Jingle  Bells,  Jingle  Bells,"  and  "Good 
Night  Ladies,"  and  "Merrily  We  Roll  Along,"  she  sat 
up  stiffly  and  unyieldingly  until  the  arm,  discouraged, 
withdrew  to  its  normal  position.    Which  two  instances 


72  FANNY   HERSELF 

are  quoted  as  being  of  a  piece  with  what  Winnebago 
termed  her  queemess. 

Not  that  Fanny  Brandeis  went  beauless  through 
school.  On  the  contrary,  she  always  had  some  one  to 
carry  her  books,  and  to  take  her  to  the  school  parties 
and  home  from  the  Friday  night  debating  society  meet- 
ings. Her  first  love  affair  turned  out  disastrously. 
She  was  twelve,  and  she  chose  as  the  object  of  her 
affections  a  bullet-headed  boy  named  Simpson.  One 
morning,  as  the  last  bell  rang  and  they  were  taking 
their  seats,  Fanny  passed  his  desk  and  gave  his  coarse 
and  stubbly  hair  a  tweak.  It  was  really  a  love  tweak, 
and  intended  to  be  playful,  but  she  probably  put  more 
fervor  into  it  than  she  knew.  It  brought  the  tears  of 
pain  to  his  eyes,  and  he  turned  and  called  her  the  name 
at  which  she  shrank  back,  horrified.  Her  shock  and 
unbelief  must  have  been  stamped  on  her  face,  for  the 
boy,  still  smarting,  had  snarled,  "Ya-as,  I  mean  it, 
too !" 

It  was  strange  how  she  remembered  that  incident 
years  after  she  had  forgotten  important  happenings 
in  her  life.  Clarence  Heyl,  whose  very  existence  you 
will  have  failed  to  remember,  used  to  hover  about  her 
uncertainly,  always  looking  as  if  he  would  like  to  walk 
home  with  her,  but  never  summoning  the  courage  to 
do  it.  They  were  graduated  from  the  grammar  school 
together,  and  Clarence  solemnly  read  a  graduation 
essay  entitled  "Where  is  the  Horse?"  Automobiles 
were  just  beginning  to  flash  plentifully  up  and  down 
Elm  Street.  Clarence  had  always  been  what  Winne- 
bago termed  sickly,  in  spite  of  his  mother's  noodle  soup, 
and  coddling.  He  was  sent  West,  to  Colorado,  or  to  a 
ranch  in  Wyoming,  Fanny  was  not  quite  sure  which, 
perhaps  because  she  was  not  interested.  He  had  come 
over  one  afternoon  to  bid  her  good-by,  and  had  dangled 
about  the  front  porch  until  she  went  into  the  house  and 
shut  the  door. 


FANNY   HERSELF  7a 

When  she  was  sixteen  there  was  a  blond  German 
boy  whose  taciturnity  attracted  her  volubility  and 
vivacity.  She  mistook  his  stolidness  for  depth,  and  it 
was  a  long  time  before  she  realized  that  his  silence  was 
not  due  to  the  weight  of  his  thoughts  but  to  the  fact 
that  he  had  nothing  to  say.  In  her  last  year  at  high 
school  she  found  herself  singled  out  for  the  attentions 
of  Harmon  Kent,  who  was  the  Beau  Nash  of  the  Win- 
nebago high  school.  His  clothes  were  made  by 
Schwartze,  the  tailor,  when  all  the  other  boys  of  his 
age  got  theirs  at  the  spring  and  fall  sales  of  the  Golden 
Eagle  Clothing  Store.  It  was  always  nip  and  tuck 
between  his  semester  standings  and  his  track  team  and 
football  possibilities.  The  faculty  refused  to  allow 
flunkers  to  take  part  in  athletics. 

He  was  one  of  those  boys  who  have  definite  charm, 
and  manner,  and  poise  at  seventeen,  and  who  crib  their 
exams  off  their  cuffs.  He  was  always  at  the  head  of 
any  social  plans  in  the  school,  and  at  the  dances  he 
rushed  about  wearing  in  his  coat  lapel  a  ribbon  marked 
Floor  Committee.  The  teachers  all  knew  he  was  a  bluff, 
but  his  engaging  manner  carried  him  through.  "V^Hien 
he  went  away  to  the  state  university  he  made  Fanny 
solemnly  promise  to  write;  to  come  down  to  Madison 
for  the  football  games;  to  be  sure  to  remember  about 
the  Junior  prom.  He  wrote  once — a  badly  spelled, 
scrawl — and  she  answered.  But  he  was  the  sort  ofj 
person  who  must  be  present  to  be  felt.  He  could  not 
project  his  personality.  When  he  came  home  for  the 
Christmas  holidays  Fanny  was  helping  in  the  store. 
He  dropped  in  one  afternoon  when  she  was  selling 
whisky  glasses  to  Mike  Hearn  of  the  Farmers'  Kest 
Hotel. 

They  did  not  write  at  all  during  the  following  semes- 
ter, and  when  he  came  back  for  the  long  summer  vaca- 
tion they  met  on  the  street  one  day  and  exchanged  a 
few   rather  forced  pleasantries.     It  suddenly  dawned 


74  FANIS^Y   HERSELF 

on  Fanny  that  he  was  patronizing  her  much  as  the  scion 

of  an  aristocratic  line  banters  the  housemaid  whom  he 

meets  on  the  stairs.     She  bit  an  imaginary  apron  cor- 

f^'-"    ner,  and  bobbed  a  curtsy  right  there  on  Elm  Street, 

in  front  of  the  Courier  office  and  walked  off,  lea\ang 

I        -him  staring.     It  was  shortly  after  this  that  she  began 

^  a  queer  line  of  reading  for  a  girl — lives  of  Disraeli, 

Spinoza,    Mendelssohn,    Mozart — distinguished    Jews 

who  had  found  their  religion  a  handicap. 

The   year   of  her  graduation   she   did   a   thing  for 
which  Winnebago  felt  itself  justified  in  calling  her  dif- 
ferent.     Each   member   of   the   graduating   class   was 
allowed  to  choose  a  theme  for  a  thesis.     Fanny  Bran- 
deis  called  hers  "A  Piece  of  Paper."     On  Winnebago's 
^^^       Fox  River  were  located  a  number  of  the  largest  and 
. .     ^^  most   important  paper  mills   in   the   country.     There 
(»^»      were  mills  in  which  paper  was  made  of  wood  fiber,  and 
others  in  which  paper  was  made  of  rags.     You  could 
smell  the  sulphur  as  soon  as  you  crossed  the  bridge 
that  led  to  the  Flats.     Sometimes,  when  the  wind  was 
right,  the  pungent  odor  of  it  spread  all  over  the  town. 
Strangers    sniffed  it  and  made   a   wry   face,  but  the 
natives  liked  it. 

The  mills  themselves  were  great  ugly  brick  buildings, 
their  windows  festooned  with  dust  webs.  Some  of  them 
boasted  high  detached  tower-like  structures  where  a 
secret  acid  process  went  on.  In  the  early  days  the 
mills  had  employed  many  workers,  but  newly  invented 
machinery  had  come  to  take  the  place  of  hand  labor. 
The  rag-rooms  alone  still  employed  hundreds  of  girls 
who  picked,  sorted,  dusted  over  the  great  suction  bins. 
The  rooms  in  which  they  worked  were  gray  with  dust. 
They  wore  caps  over  their  hair  to  protect  it  from  the 
motes  that  you  could  see  spinning  and  swirling  in  the 
watery  sunlight  that  occasionally  found  its  way  through 
the  gray-filmed  window  panes.  It  never  seemed  to  occur 
to  them  that  the  dust  cap  so  carefully  pulled  down 


FANNY   HERSELF  75 

about  their  heaxls  did  not  afford  protection  for  their 
lungs.  They  were  pale  girls,  the  rag-room  girls,  with 
a  peculiarly  gray-white  pallor. 

Fanny  Brandeis  had  once  been  through  the  Winne- 
bago Paper  Company's  mill  and  she  had  watched,  fas- 
cinated, while  a  pair  of  soiled  and  greasy  old  blue  over- 
alls were  dusted  and  cleaned,  and  put  through  this  acid 
vat,  and  that  acid  tub,  growing  whiter  and  more  pulpy 
with  each  process  until  it  was  fed  into  a  great  crushing 
roller  that  pressed  the  moisture  out  of  it,  flattened  it 
to  the  proper  thinness  and  spewed  it  out  at  last,  mirac- 
ulously, in  the  form  of  rolls  of  crisp,  white  paper. 

On  the  first  day  of  the  Easter  vacation  Fanny  Bran- 
deis walked  down  to  the  office  of  the  Winnebago  Paper 
Company's  mill  and  applied  at  the  superintendent's 
office  for  a  j  ob.  She  got  it.  They  were  generally  short- 
handed  in  the  rag-room.  When  Mrs.  Brandeis  heard 
of  it  there  followed  one  of  the  few  stormy  scenes  be- 
tween mother  and  daughter. 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  demanded  Mrs.  Brandeis. 

"I  had  to,  to  get  it  right." 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly.  You  could  have  visited  the  mill 
a  dozen  times." 

Fanny  twisted  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand  in  the 
fingers  of  her  right  as  was  her  way  when  she  was  ter- 
ribly in  earnest,  and  rather  excited. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  write  about  the  paper  business 
as  a  process." 

"WeU,  then,  what  do  you  want.?" 

"I  want  to  write  about  the  overalls  on  some  railroad 
engineer,  perhaps ;  or  the  blue  calico  wrapper  that  be- 
longed, maybe,  to  a  scrub  woman.  And  how  they  came 
to  be  spotted,  or  faded,  or  torn,  and  finally  all  worn 
out.  And  how  the  rag  man  got  them,  and  the  mill, 
and  how  the  girls  sorted  them.  And  the  room  in  which 
they  do  it.  And  the  bins.  And  the  machinery.  Oh, 
it's  the  most  fascinating,  and — ^and  sort  of  relentless 


76  FANNY   HERSELF 

machinery.  And  the  acid  burns  on  the  hands  of  the 
men  at  the  vats.  And  their  shoes.  And  then  the  paper, 
so  white.  And  the  way  we  tear  it  up,  or  crumple  it, 
and  throw  it  in  the  waste  basket.  Just  a  piece  of 
paper,  don't  you  see  what  I  mean?  Just  a  piece  of 
paper,  and  yet  all  that — "  she  stopped  and  frowned  a 
little,  and  grew  inarticulate,  and  gave  it  up  with  a 
final,  "Don't  you  see  what  I  mean.  Mother?  Don't 
you  see  what  I  mean?" 

Molly  Brandeis  looked  at  her  daughter  in  a  startled 
way,  like  one  who,  walking  tranquilly  along  an  accus- 
tomed path,  finds  himself  confronting  a  new  and  hith- 
erto unsuspected  vista,  formed  by  a  peculiar  arrange- 
ment of  clouds,  perhaps,  or  light,  or  foliage,  or  all 
three  blended.  "I  see  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "But 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  it.  I — I  wish  you  didn't  feel 
that  you  wanted  to  do  it." 

"But  how  can  I  make  it  real  if  I  don't?" 

"You  can't,"  said  Molly  Brandeis.  "That's  just  it. 
You  can't,  ever." 

Fanny  got  up  before  six  every  morning  of  that 
Easter  vacation,  and  went  to  the  mill,  lunch  box  in 
hand.  She  came  home  at  night  dead-tired.  She  did 
not  take  the  street  car  to  and  from  the  mill,  as  she 
might  have,  because  she  said  the  other  girls  in  the  rag- 
room  walked,  some  of  them  from  the  very  edge  of  town. 
Mrs.  Brandeis  said  that  she  was  carrying  things  too 
far,  but  Fanny  stuck  it  out  for  the  two  weeks,  at  the 
end  of  which  period  she  spent  an  entire  Sunday  in  a 
hair-washing,  face-steaming,  and  manicuring  bee.  She 
wrote  her  paper  from  notes  she  had  taken,  and  turned 
it  in  at  the  office  of  the  high  school  principal  with  the 
feeling  that  it  was  not  at  all  what  she  had  meant  it  to 
be.  A  week  later  Professor  Henning  called  her  into 
his  office.     The  essay  lay  on  his  desk. 

"I've  read  your  thesis,"  he  began,  and  stopped,  and 
cleared   his    throat.      He   was   not   an   eloquent   man. 


FANNY   HERSELF  77 

^'Whcre  did  you  get  your  information,  Miss  Brandeis?" 

"I  got  it  at  the  mill." 

"From  one  of  the  employees?" 

"Oh,  no.     I  worked  there,  in  the  rag-room." 

Professor  Henning  gave  a  little  startled  exclamation 
that  he  turned  hastily  into  a  cough.  "I  thought  that 
perhaps  the  editor  of  the  Courier  might  like  to  see  it — 
it  being  local.     And  interesting." 

He  brought  it  down  to  the  office  of  the  little  paper 
himself,  and  promised  to  call  for  it  again  in  an  hour 
or  two,  when  Lem  Da\as  should  have  read  it.  Lem 
Davis  did  read  it,  and  snorted,  and  scuffled  with  his 
feet  in  the  drift  of  papers  under  his  desk,  which  was  a 
way  he  had  when  enraged. 

"Read  it!"  he  echoed,  at  Professor  Henning's  ques- 
tion.    "Read  it!    Yes,  I  read  it.     And  let  me  tell  you 
.  it's  socialism  of  the  rankest  kind,  that's  what!     It's*. 
,   \ anarchism,  that's  what!    Who's  this  girl.?    Mrs.  Bran- 
^.  \  deis's  daughter — of  the  Bazaar?     Let  me  tell  you  I'd 
go  over  there  and  tell  her  what  I  think  of  the  way  she's 
bringing  up   that   girl — if   she   wasn't   an   advertiser. 
*A  Piece  of  Paper' !    Hell !"    And  to  show  his  contempt 
for  what  he  had  read  he  wadded  together  a  great  mass 
of  exchanges  that  littered  his  desk  and  hurled  them,  a 
crumpled  heap,  to  the  floor,  and  then  spat  tobacco  juice 
upon  them. 

"Fm  sorry,"  said  Professor  Henning,  and  rose;  but 
at  the  door  he  turned  and  said  something  highly  unpro- 
fessorial.  "It's  a  darn  fine  piece  of  writing."  And 
slammed  the  door.  At  supper  that  night  he  told  Mrs. 
Henning  about  it.  Mrs.  Henning  was  a  practical 
woman,  as  the  wife  of  a  small-town  high  school  princi- 
pal must  needs  be.  "But  don't  you  know,"  she  said, 
"that  Roscoe  Moore,  who  is  president  of  the  Outagamie 
Pulp  Mill  and  the  Winnebago  Paper  Company,  prac- 
tically owns  the  Courier?** 

Professor  Henning  passed  a  hand  over  his  hair,  rue- 


78  FANNY   HERSELF 

fully,  like  a  school  boy.  "No,  Martha,  I  didn't  know. 
If  I  knew  those  things,  dear,  I  suppose  we  wouldn't  be 
eating  sausage  for  supper  to-night."  There  was  a 
little  silence  between  them.  Then  he  looked  up.  "Some 
day  I'm  going  to  brag  about  having  been  that  Brandeis 
girl's  teacher." 

Fanny  was  in  the  store  a  great  deal  now.  After  she 
finished  high  school  they  sent  Mattie  away  and  Fanny 
took  over  the  housekeeping  duties,  but  it  was  not  her 
milieu.  Not  that  she  didn't  do  it  well.  She  put  a  per- 
fect fury  of  energy  and  care  into  the  preparation  of 
a  pot  roast.  After  she  had  iced  a  cake  she  enhanced  it 
with  cunning  arabesques  of  jelly.  The  house  shone 
as  it  never  had,  even  under  Mattie's  honest  regime. 
But  it  was  like  hitching  a  high-power  engine  to  a  butter 
churn.  There  were  periods  of  maddening  restlessness. 
At  such  times  she  would  set  about  cleaning  the  cellar, 
perhaps.  It  was  a  three-roomed  cellar,  brick-floored, 
cool,  and  having  about  it  that  indefinable  cellar  smell 
which  is  of  mold,  and  coal,  and  potatoes,  and  onions, 
and  kindling  wood,  and  dill  pickles  and  ashes. 

Other  girls  of  Fanny's  age,  at  such  times,  cleaned 
out  their  bureau  drawers  and  read  forbidden  novels. 
Fanny  armed  herself  with  the  third  best  broom,  the 
dust-pan,  and  an  old  bushel  basket.  She  swept  up 
chips,  scraped  up  ashes,  scoured  the  preserve  shelves, 
washed  the  windows,  cleaned  the  vegetable  bins,  and 
got  gritty,  and  scarlet-cheeked  and  streaked  with  soot. 
It  was  a  wonderful  safety  valve,  that  cellar.  A  pity  it 
was  that  the  house  had  no  attic. 

Then  there  were  long,  lazy  summer  afternoons  when 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  read.  And  dream.  And 
watch  the  town  go  by  to  supper.  I  think  that  is  why 
our  great  men  and  women  so  often  have  sprung  from 
small  towns,  or  villages.  They  have  had  time  to  dream 
I  in  their  adolescence.  No  cars  to  catch,  no  matinees, 
no  city  streets,  none  of  the  teeming,  empty,  energy- 


FANNY   HERSELF  79 

consuming  occupations  of  the  city  child.  Little  that 
is  competitive,  much  that  is  unconsciously  absorbed  at 
the  most  impressionable  period,  long  evenings  for  read- 
ing, long  afternoons  in  the  fields  or  woods.  With  the 
cloth  laid,  and  the  bread  cut  and  covered  with  a  napkin, 
and  the  sauce  in  the  glass  bowl,  and  the  cookies  on 
a  blue  plate,  and  the  potatoes  doing  very,  very  slowly,i 
and  the  kettle  steaming  with  a  Peerybingle  cheerfulness, 
Fanny  would  stroll  out  to  the  front  porch  again  to 
watch  for  the  familiar  figure  to  appear  around  the 
corner  of  Norris  Street.  She  would  wear  her  blue-and- 
white  checked  gingham  apron  deftly  twisted  over  one 
hip,  and  tucked  in,  in  deference  to  the  passers-by.  And 
the  town  would  go  by — Hen  Cody's  drays,  rattling  and 
thundering;  the  high  school  boys  thudding  down  the 
road,  dog-tired  and  sweaty  in  their  football  suits,  or 
their  track  pants  and  jersies,  on  their  way  from  the 
athletic  field  to  the  school  shower  baths ;  Mrs.  Mosher 
flying  home,  her  skirts  billowing  behind  her,  after  a  pro- 
tracted afternoon  at  whist;  little  Ernie  Trost  with  a 
napkin-covered  peach  basket  carefully  balanced  in  his 
hand,  waiting  for  the  six-fifteen  interurban  to  round  the 
corner  near  the  switch,  so  that  he  could  hand  up  his 
father's  supper ;  Rudie  Maas,  the  butcher,  with  a  moist 
little  packet  of  meat  in  his  hand,  and  lurching  ever  so 
slightly,  and  looking  about  defiantly.  Oh,  Fanny  prob- 
ably never  realized  how  much  she  saw  and  absorbed, 
sitting  there  on  Brandeis'  front  porch,  watching  Win- 
nebago go  by  to  supper. 

At  Christmas  time  she  helped  in  the  store,  after- 
noons and  evenings.  Then,  one  Christmas,  Mrs.  Bran- 
deis was  ill  for  three  weeks  with  grippe.  They  had  to 
have  a  helper  in  the  house.  When  Mrs.  Brandeis  was 
able  to  come  back  to  the  store  Sadie  left  to  marry,  not 
one  of  her  traveling-men  victims,  but  a  steady  person, 
in  the  paper-hanging  way,  whose  suit  had  long  been 
considered  hopeless.    After  that  Fanny  took  her  place. 


80  FANNY   HERSELF 

She  developed  a  surprising  knack  at  selling.  Yet  it 
was  not  so  surprising,  perhaps,  when  one  considered 
her  teacher.  She  learned  as  only  a  woman  can  learn 
who  is  brought  into  daily  contact  with  the  outside 
world.  It  was  not  only  contact:  it  was  the  relation  of 
buyer  and  seller.  She  learned  to  judge  people  because 
she  had  to.  How  else  could  one  gauge  their  tastes, 
temperaments,  and  pocketbooks?  They  passed  in  and 
out  of  Brandeis'  Bazaar,  day  after  day,  in  an  endless 
and  varied  procession — traveling  men,  school  children, 
housewives,  farmers,  worried  hostesses,  newly  married 
couples  bent  on  house  furnishing,  business  men. 

She  learned  that  it  was  the  girls  from  the  paper 
mills  who  bought  the  expensive  plates — the  ones  with 
the  red  roses  and  green  leaves  hand-painted  in  great 
smears  and  costing  two  dollars  and  a  half,  while  the 
golf  club  crowd  selected  for  a  gift  or  prize  one  of  the 
little  white  plates  with  the  faded-looking  blue  sprig 
pattern,  costing  thirty-nine  cents.  One  day,  after  she 
had  spent  endless  time  and  patience  over  the  sale  of  a 
nondescript  little  plate  to  one  of  Winnebago's  socially 
elect,  she  stared  wrathfuUy  after  the  retreating  back  of 
the  trying  customer. 

"Did  you  see  that?  I  spent  an  hour  with  her.  One 
hour!  I  showed  her  everything  from  the  imported 
Limoges  bowls  to  the  Sevres  cups  and  saucers,  and  all 
she  bought  was  that  miserable  little  bonbon  dish  with 
the  cornflower  pattern.    Cat !" 

Mrs.  Brandeis  spoke  from  the  depths  of  her  wisdom. 

"Fanny,  I  didn't  miss  much  that  went  on  during  that 
hour,  and  I  was  dying  to  come  over  and  take  her  away 
from  you,  but  I  didn't  because  I  knew  you  needed  the 
lesson,  and  I  knew  that  that  McNulty  woman  never 
spends  more  than  twenty-five  cents,  anyway.  But  I 
want  to  tell  you  now  that  it  isn't  only  a  matter  of 
plates.  It's  a  matter  of  understanding  folks.  When 
you've    learned   whom   to    show   the    expensive   hand- 


FANNY   HERSELF  81 

painted  things  to,  and  when  to  suggest  quietly  the 
little,  vague  things,  with  what  you  call  the  faded  look, 
why,  you've  learned  just  about  all  there  is  to  know  of 
human  nature.    Don't  expect  it,  at  your  age." 

Molly  Brandeis  had  never  lost  her  trick  of  chatting 
with  customers,  or  listening  to  them,  whenever  she  had 
a  moment's  time.  People  used  to  drop  in,  and  perch 
themselves  on  one  of  the  stools  near  the  big  glowing 
base  burner  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Brandeis.  It  was  incred- 
ible, the  secrets  they  revealed  of  business,  and  love  and 
disgrace;  of  hopes  and  aspirations,  and  troubles,  and 
happiness.  The  farmer  women  used  to  fascinate  Fanny 
by  their  very  drabness.  Mrs.  Brandeis  had  a  long  and 
lojal  following  of  these  women.  It  was  before  the  day 
when  every  farmhouse  boasted  an  automobile,  a  tele- 
phone, and  a  phonograph. 

A  worn  and  dreary  lot,  these  farmer  women,  living  a 
skimmed  milk  existence,  putting  their  youth,  and  health, 
and  looks  into  the  soil.  They  used  often  to  sit  back 
near  the  stove  in  winter,  or  in  a  cool  comer  near  the 
front  of  the  store  in  summer,  and  reveal,  bit  by  bit, 
the  sordid,  tragic  details  of  their  starved  existence. 
Fanny  was  often  shocked  when  they  told  their  age — 
twenty-five,  twenty-eight,  thirty,  but  old  and  withered 
from  drudgery,  and  child-bearing,  and  coarse,  unwhole- 
some food.  Ignorant  women,  and  terribly  lonely,  with 
'the  dumb,  lack-luster  eyes  that  bespeak  monotony. 
When  they  smiled  they  showed  blue-white,  glassily  per- 
fect false  teeth  that  flashed  incongruously  in  the  ruin 
of  their  wrinkled,  sallow,  weather-beaten  faces.  Mrs. 
Brandeis  would  question  them  gently. 

Children?  Ten.  Living?  Four.  Doctor?  Never 
had  one  in  the  house.  Why  ?  He  didn't  believe  in  them. 
No  proper  kitchen  utensils,  none  of  the  devices  that 
lighten  the  deadeningly  montonous  drudgery  of  house- 
work. Everything  went  to  make  his  work  easier — new 
harrows,  plows,  tractors,  wind  mills,  reapers,  barns, 


82  FANNY   HERSELF 

,  silos.  The  story  would  come  out,  bit  by  bit,  as  the 
"  woman  sat  there,  a  worn,  unlovely  figure,  her  hands — 
toil-blackened,  seamed,  calloused,  unlovelier  than  any 
woman's  hands  were  ever  meant  to  be — ^lying  in  unac- 
customed idleness  in  her  lap. 

Fanny  learned,  too,  that  the  woman  with  the  shawl, 
and  with  her  money  tied  in  a  comer  of  her  handker- 
chief, was  more  likely  to  buy  the  six-dollar  doll,  with 
the  blue  satin  dress,  and  the  real  hair  and  eye-lashes, 
while  the  Winnebago  East  End  society  woman  haggled 
over  the  forty-nine  cent  kind,  which  she  dressed 
herself. 

I  think  their  loyalty  to  Mrs.  Brandeis  might  be  ex- 
/  plained  by  her  honesty  and  her  sympathy.  She  was  so 
square  with  them.  When  Minnie  Mahler,  out  Center- 
ville  way,  got  married,  she  knew  there  would  be  no 
redundancy  of  water  sets,  hanging  lamps,  or  pickle 
dishes. 

"I  thought  like  Fd  get  her  a  chamber  set,"  Minnie's 
aunt  would  confide  to  Mrs.  Brandeis. 

"Is  this  for  Minnie  Mahler,  of  Centerville .?" 

"Yes;  she  gets  married  Sunday." 

"I  sold  a  chamber  set  for  that  wedding  yesterday. 
And  a  set  of  dishes.  But  I  don't  think  she's  got  a 
parlor  lamp.  At  least  I  haven't  sold  one.  Why  don't 
you  get  her  that?  If  she  doesn't  like  it  she  can  change 
it.     Now  there's  that  blue  one  with  the  pink  roses."^ 

And  Minnie's  aunt  would  end  by  buying  the  lamp. 

Fanny  learned  that  the  mill  girls  liked  the  bright- 
colored  and  expensive  wares,  and  why ;  she  learned  that 
the  woman  with  the  "fascinator"  (tragic  misnomer!) 
over  her  head  wanted  the  finest  sled  for  her  boy. 
She  learned  to  keep  her  temper.  She  learned  to 
suggest  without  seeming  to  suggest.  She  learned 
to  do  surprisingly  well  all  those  things  that  her 
mother  did  so  surprisingly  well — surprisingly  because 
both  the  women  secretly  hated  the  business  of  buying 


FANNY   HERSELF  83' 

and  selling.  Once,  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  when  there 
was  a  stand  outside  the  store  laden  with  all  sorts  of 
fireworks,  Fanny  came  down  to  find  Aloysius  and  the 
boy  Eddie  absent  on  other  work,  and  Mrs.  Brandeis 
momentarily  in  charge.  The  sight  sickened  her,  then 
infuriated  her. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  between  her  teeth.  "That  isn't 
your  work." 

"Somebody  had  to  be  there.  Pearl's  at  dinner.  And 
Aloysius  and  Eddie  were — " 

"Then  leave  it  alone.  We're  not  starving — yet.  I 
won't  have  you  selling  fireworks  like  that — on  the 
street.     I  won't  have  it !     I  won't  have  it !"  -ri 

The  store  was  paying,  now.     Not  magnificently,  but|j 
well  enough.     Most  of  the  money  went  to  Theodore,  in  ) 
Dresden.    He  was  progressing,  though  not  so  meteoric- 
ally  as  Bauer  and  Schabelitz  had  predicted.     But  that 
sort  of  thing  took  time,  Mrs.  Brandeis  argued.    Fanny 
often  found  her  mother  looking  at  her  these  days  with 
a  questioning  sadness  in  her  eyes.     Once  she  suggested 
that  Fanny  join  the  class  in  drawing  at  the  Winne- 
bago university — a  small  fresh-water  college.     Fanny 
did  try  it  for  a  few  months,  but  the  work  was  not  what 
she  wanted;  they  did  fruit  pictures  and  vases,  with  a 
book,  on  a  table;  or  a  clump  of  very  pink  and  very 
white  flowers.     Fanny  quit  in  disgust   and  boredom.  ■ 
Besides,  they  were  busy  at  the  store,  and  needed  her. 

There  came  often  to  Winnebago  a  woman  whom 
I  Fanny  Brandeis  admired  intensely.  She  was  a  travel- 
ing saleswoman,  successful,  magnetic,  and  very  much 
alive.  Her  name  was  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney,  and 
between  her  and  Mrs.  Brandeis  there  existed  a  warm 
friendship.  She  always  took  dinner  with  Mrs.  Bran- 
deis and  Fanny,  and  they  made  a  special  effort  to  give 
her  all  those  delectable  home-cooked  dishes  denied  her 
in  her  endless  round  of  hotels. 

"Noodle  soup!"  she  used  to  say,  almost  lyrically. 


84  FANNY   HERSELF 

"With  real  hand-made,  egg  noodles !  You  don't  know 
what  it  means.  You  haven't  been  eating  vermicelli 
soup  all  through  Illinois  and  Wisconsin." 

"We've  made  a  dessert,  though,  that — ^" 

"Molly  Brandeis,  don't  you  dare  to  tell  me  what 
you've  got  for  dessert.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  But,  oh, 
suppose,  suppose  it's  homemade  strawberry  shortcake !" 

Which  it  more  than  likely  was. 

Fanny  Brandeis  used  to  think  that  she  would  dress 
exactly  as  Mrs.  McChesney  dressed,  if  she  too  were  a 
successful  business  woman  earning  a  man-size  salary. 
Mrs.  McChesney  was  a  blue  serge  sort  of  woman — and 
her  blue  serge  never  was  shiny  in  the  back.  Her  collar, 
or  jabot,  or  tie,  or  cuffs,  or  whatever  relieving  bit  of 
white  she  wore,  was  always  of  the  freshest  and  crispest. 
Her  hats  were  apt  to  be  small  and  full  of  what  is  known 
as  "line."  She  usually  would  try  to  arrange  her  sched- 
ule so  as  to  spend  a  Sunday  in  Winnebago,  and  the 
three  alert,  humor-loving  women,  grown  wise  and  tol- 
erant from  much  contact  with  human  beings,  would 
have  a  delightful  day  together. 

"Molly,"  Mrs.  McChesney  would  say,  when  they  were 
comfortably  settled  in  the  living-room,  or  on  the  front 
porch,  "with  your  shrewdness,  and  experience,  and 
brains,  you  ought  to  be  one  of  those  five  or  ten  thou- 
sand a  year  buyers.  You  know  how  to  sell  goods  and 
handle  people.  And  you  know  values.  That's  all  there 
is  to  the  whole  game  of  business.  I  don't  advise  you 
to  go  on  the  road.  Heaven  knows  I  wouldn't  advise 
my  dearest  enemy  to  do  that,  much  less  a  friend.  But 
you  could  do  bigger  things,  and  get  bigger  results. 
You  know  most  of  the  big  wholesalers,  and  retailers 
too.  Why  don't  you  speak  to  them  about  a  department 
position  ?    Or  let  me  nose  around  a  bit  for  you." 

Molly  Brandeis  shook  her  head,  though  her  expres- 
sive eyes  were  eager  and  interested.  "Don't  you  think 
I've  thought  of  that,  Emma.'^    A  thousand  times.'*    But 


FANNY   HERSELF  85 

I'm — I'm  afraid.  There's  too  much  at  stake.  Sup- 
pose I  couldn't  succeed?  There's  Theodore.  His 
whole  future  is  dependent  on  me  for  the  next  few  years. 
And  there's  Fanny  here.  No,  I  guess  I'm  too  old. 
And  I'm  sure  of  the  business  here,  small  as  it  is." 

Emma  McChesney  glanced  at  the  girl.  "I'm  think- 
ing that  Fanny  has  the  making  of  a  pretty  capable 
business  woman  herself." 

Fanny  drew  in  her  breath  sharply,  and  her  face 
sparkled  into  sudden  life,  as  always  when  she  was  tre- 
mendously interested. 

"Do  you  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  were  in  Mother's 
place?  I'd  take  a  great,  big  running  jump  for  it — and 
land !  I'd  take  a  chance.  What  is  there  for  her  in  this 
town?  Nothing!  She's  been  giving  things  up  all  her 
life,  and  what  has  it  brought  her?" 

"It  has  brought  me  a  comfortable  living,  and  the 
love  of  my  two  children,  and  the  respect  of  my  towns- 
people." 

"Respect?  Why  shouldn't  they  respect  you?  You're 
the  smartest  woman  in  Winnebago,  and  the  hardest 
working." 

Emma  McChesney  frowned  a  little,  in  thought. 
"What  do  you  two  girls  do  for  recreation?" 

"I'm  afraid  we  have  too  little  of  that,  Emma.  I 
know  Fanny  has.  I'm  so  dog-tired  at  the  end  of  the 
day.  All  I  want  is  to  take  my  hairpins  out  and  go  to 
bed." 

"And  Fanny?" 

"Oh,  I  read.  I'm  free  to  pick  my  book  friends,  at 
least." 

"Now,  just  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  child?  It 
sounds  a  little  bitter." 

"I  was  thinking  of  what  Chesterfield  said  in  one  of 
his  Letters  to  His  Son.     'Choose  always  to  be  in  the      >^ 
society  of  those  above  you,'  he  wrote.    I  guess  he  never  -^  ^ 
lived  in  Winnebago,  Wisconsin.    I'm  a  working  woman,  j  . 

4"^ 


o 


86  FANNY   HERSELF 

and  a  Jew,  and  we  haven't  any  money  or  social  posi- 
tion. And  unless  she's  a  Becky  Sharp  any  small  town 
girl  with  all  those  handicaps  might  as  well  choose  a 
certain  constellation  of  stars  in  the  sky  to  wear  as  a 
breastpin,  as  try  to  choose  the  friends  she  really 
wants." 

From  Molly  Brandeis  to  Emma  McChesney  there 
flashed  a  look  that  said,  "You  see?"  And  from  Emma 
McChesney  to  Molly  Brandeis  another  that  said,  "Yes ; 
and  it's  your  fault." 

"Look  here,  Fanny,  don't  you  see  any  boys — men?" 

"No.  There  aren't  any.  Those  who  have  any  sense 
and  initiative  leave  to  go  to  Milwaukee,  or  Chicago, 
or  New  York.  Those  that  stay  marry  the  banker's 
lovely  daughter." 

Emma  McChesney  laughed  at  that,  and  Molly  Bran- 
deis too,  and  Fanny  joined  them  a  bit  ruefully.  Then 
quite  suddenly,  there  came  into  her  face  a  melting, 
softening  look  that  made  it  almost  lovely.  She  crossed 
swiftly  over  to  where  her  mother  sat,  and  put  a  hand 
on  either  cheek  (grown  thinner  of  late)  and  kissed 
the  tip  of  her  nose.  "We  don't  care — really.  Do  we 
Mother?  We're  poor  wurkin'  girruls.  But  gosh! 
Ain't  we  proud  ?  Mother,  your  mistake  was  in  not  do- 
ing as  Ruth  did." 

"Ruth?" 

"In  the  Bible.  Remember  when  What's-his-name,  her 
husband,  died?  Did  she  go  back  to  her  home  town? 
No,  she  didn't.  She'd  lived  there  all  her  life,  and  she 
knew  better.  She  said  to  Naomi,  her  mother-in-law, 
'Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go.'  And  she  went.  And 
when  they  got  to  Bethlehem,  Ruth  looked  around,  know- 
ingly, until  she  saw  Boaz,  the  catch  of  the  town.  So 
she  went  to  work  in  his  fields,  gleaning,  and  she  gleaned 
away,  trying  to  look  just  as  girlish,  and  dreamy,  and 
unconscious,  but  watching  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eye  all  the  time.     Presently  Boaz  came  along,  looking 


FANNY.  HERSELF  87 

over  the  crops,  and  he  saw  her.  *  Who's  the  new  dam- 
sel?' he  asked.     'The  peach?'" 

"Fanny  Brandeis,  aren't  you  ashamed?" 

"But,  Mother,  that's  what  it  says  in  the  Bible,  actu- 
ally, *Whose  damsel  is  this?'  They  told  him  it  was 
Ruth,  the  dashing  widow.  After  that  it  was  all  off 
with  the  Bethlehem  girls.  Boaz  paid  no  more  atten- 
tion to  them  than  if  they  had  never  existed.  He  married 
Ruth,  and  she  led  society.  Just  a  little  careful  schem- 
ing, that's  all." 

"I  should  say  you  have  been  reading,  Fanny  Bran- 
deis," said  Emma  McChesney.  She  was  smiling,  but 
her  eyes  were  serious.  "Now  listen  to  me,  child.  The 
very  next  time  a  traveling  man  in  a  brown  suit  and  a 
red  necktie  asks  you  to  take  dinner  with  him  at  the 
Haley  House — even  one  of  those  roast  pork,  queen- 
fritter-with-rum-sauce,  Roman  punch  Sunday  dinners 
— I  want  you  to  accept." 

"Even  if  he  wears  an  Elks'  pin,  and  a  Masonic 
charm,  and  a  diamond  ring  and  a  brown  derby?" 

"Even  if  he  shows  you  the  letters  from  his  girl  In 
Manistee,"  said  Mrs.  McChesney  solemnly.  "You've 
been  geeing  too  much  of  Fanny  Brandeis." 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

THEODORE  had  been  gone  six  years.  His  letters, 
all  too  brief,  were  events  in  the  lives  of  the  two 
women.  They  read  and  reread  them.  Fanny  uncon- 
sciously embellished  them  with  fascinating  details  made 
up  out  of  her  own  imagination. 

"They're  really  triumphs  of  stupidity  and  dullness," 
she  said  one  day  in  disgust,  after  one  of  Theodore's 
long-awaited  letters  had  proved  particularly  dry  and 
sparse.  "Just  think  of  it !  Dresden,  Munich,  Leipsic, 
Vienna,  Berlin,  Frankfurt!  And  from  his  letters  you 
would  never  know  he  had  left  Winnebago.  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  actually  sees  anything  of  these  cities — their 
people,  and  the  queer  houses,  and  the  streets.  I  sup- 
pose a  n^w  city  means  nothing  to  him  but  another  plat- 
form, another  audience,  another  piano,  all  intended  as 
a  background  for  his  violin.  He  could  travel  all  over 
the  world  and  it  wouldn't  touch  him  once.  He's  got  his 
mental  fingers  crossed  all  the  time." 

Theodore  had  begun  to  play  in  concert  with  some 
success,  but  he  wrote  that  there  was  no  real  money  in 
it  yet.  He  was  not  well  enough  known.  It  took  time. 
He  would  have  to  get  a  name  in  Europe  before  he 
could  attempt  an  American  tour.  Just  now  every  one 
was  mad  over  Greinert.  He  was  drawing  immense 
audiences.  He  sent  them  a  photograph  at  which  they 
gasped,  and  then  laughed,  surprisedly.  He  looked  so 
awfully  German,  so  different,  somehow. 

"It's  the  way  his  hair  is  clipped,  I  suppose,"  said 
Fanny.  "High,  like  that,  on  the  temples.  And  look  at 
his   clothes!     That  tie!     And  his  pants!     And  that 


FANNY   HERSELF  89 

awful  collar!  Why,  his  very  features  look  German, 
don't  they?  I  suppose  it's  the  effect  of  that  haber- 
dashery." 

A  month  after  the  photograph,  came  a  letter  an- 
nouncing his  marriage.  Fanny's  quick  eye,  leaping 
ahead  from  line  to  line,  took  in  the  facts  that  her  mind 
seemed  unable  to  grasp.  Her  name  was  Olga  Stumpf. 
(In  the  midst  of  her  horror  some  imp  in  Fanny's  brain 
said  that  her  hands  would  be  red,  and  thick,  with  a 
name  like  that.)  An  orphan.  She  sang.  One  of  the 
Vienna  concert  halls,  but  so  different  from  the  other 
girls.  And  he  was  so  happy.  And  he  hated  to  ask 
them  for  it,  but  if  they  could  cable  a  hundred  or  so. 
That  would  help.     And  here  was  her  picture. 

And  there  was  her  picture.  One  of  the  so-called 
vivacious  type  of  Viennese  of  the  lower  class,  smiling  a 
conscious  smile,  her  hair  elaborately  waved  and  dressed, 
her  figure  high-busted,  narrow-waisted ;  earrings, 
chains,  bracelets.  You  knew  that  she  used  a  heavy 
scent.  She  was  older  than  Theodore.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  the  earrings. 

They  cabled  the  hundred. 

After  the  first  shock  of  it  Molly  Brandeis  found 
excuses  for  him.  "He  must  have  been  awfully  lonely, 
Fanny.  Often.  And  perhaps  it  will  steady  him,  and 
make  him  more  ambitious.  He'll  probably  work  all  the 
harder  now." 

"No,  he  won't.  But  you  will.  And  I  will.  I  didn't 
mind  working  for  Theodore,  and  scrimping,  and  never 
having  any  of  the  things  I  wanted,  from  blouses  to 
music.  But  I  won't  work  and  deny  m^^self  to  keep  a 
great,  thick,  cheap,  German  barmaid,  or  whatever  she 
is  in  comfort.    I  won't !" 

But  she  did.  And  quite  suddenly  Molly  Brandeis,  of 
the  straight,  firm  figure  and  the  bright,  alert  eye,  and 
the  buoyant  humor,  seemed  to  lose  some  of  those  elec- 
tric qualities.     It  was  an  almost  imperceptible  letting 


»0  FANNY   HERSELF 

down.  You  have  seen  a  fine  race  horse  suddenly  break 
and  lose  his  stride  in  the  midst  of  the  field,  and  pull 
up  and  try  to  gain  it  again,  and  go  bravely  on,  his 
stride  and  form  still  there,  but  his  spirit  broken?  That 
was  Molly  Brandeis. 

Fanny  did  much  of  the  buying  now.  She  bought 
quickly  and  shrewdly,  hke  her  mother.  She  even  went 
to  the  Haley  House  to  buy,  when  necessary,  and  Win- 
nebagoans,  passing  the  hotel,  would  see  her  slim,  erect 
figure  in  one  of  the  sample-rooms  with  its  white-covered 
tables  laden  with  china,  or  glassware,  or  Christmas 
goods,  or  whatever  that  particular  salesman  happened 
to  carry.  They  lifted  their  eye-brows  at  first,  but, 
somehow,  it  was  impossible  to  associate  this  girl  with 
the  blithe,  shirt-sleeved,  cigar-smoking  traveling  men 
who  followed  her  about  the  sample-room,  order  book 
in  hand. 

As  time  went  on  she  introduced  some  new  features 
into  the  business,  and  did  away  with  various  old  ones. 
The  overflowing  benches  outside  the  store  were  curbed, 
and  finally  disappeared  altogether.  Fanny  took  charge 
of  the  window  displays,  and  often  came  back  to  the 
>store  at  night  to  spend  the  evening  at  work  with 
Aloysius.  They  would  tack  a  piece  of  muslin  around 
the  window  to  keep  off  the  gaze  of  passers-by,  and 
together  evolve  a  window  that  more  than  made  up  for 
the  absent  show  benches. 

This,  I  suppose,  is  no  time  to  stop  for  a  description 
of  Fanny  Brandeis.  And  yet  the  impulse  to  do  so  is 
irresistible.  Personally,  I  like  to  know  about  the  hair, 
and  eyes,  and  mouth  of  the  person  whose  life  I  am  fol- 
lowing. How  did  she  look  when  she  said  that?  What 
sort  of  expression  did  she  wear  when  this  happened? 
Perhaps  the  thing  that  Fanny  Brandeis  said  about  her- 
self one  day,  when  she  was  having  one  of  her  talks  with 
Emma  McChesney,  who  was  on  her  fall  trip  for  the 
Featherbloom  Petticoat  Company,  might  help. 


FANNY   HERSELF  91 

**No  ballroom  would  ever  be  hushed  into  admiring 
awe  when  I  entered,"  she  said.  "No  waiter  would  ever 
drop  his  tray,  dazzled,  and  no  diners  in  a  restaurant 
would  stop  to  gaze  at  me,  their  forks  poised  halfway, 
their  eyes  blinded  by  my  beauty.  I  could  tramp  up 
and  down  between  the  tables  for  hours,  and  no  one 
would  know  I  was  there.  I'm  one  of  a  million  women 
who  look  their  best  in  a  tailor  suit  and  a  hat  with  a 
Hne.  Not  that  I  ever  had  either.  But  I  have  my 
points,  only  they're  blunted  just  now." 

Still,  that  bit  of  description  doesn't  do,  after  all. 
Because  she  had  distinct  .charm,  and  some  beauty.  She 
was  not  what  is  known  as  the  Jewish  type,  in  spite  of 
her  coloring.  The  hair  that  used  to  curl,  waved  now. 
In  a  day  when  coiffures  were  a  bird's-nest  of  puffs  and 
curls  and  pompadour,  she  wore  her  hair  straight  back 
from  her  forehead  and  wound  in  a  coil  at  the  neck. 
Her  face  in  repose  was  apt  to  be  rather  lifeless,  and 
almost  heavy.  But  when  she  talked,  it  flashed  into 
sudden  life,  and  you  found  yourself  watching  her  mouth, 
fascinated.  It  was  the  key  to  her  whole  character,  that 
mouth.  Mobile,  humorous,  sensitive,  the  sensuousness 
of  the  lower  lip  corrected  by  the  firmness  of  the  upper. 
She  had  large,  square  teeth,  very  regular,  and  of  the 
yellow-white  tone  that  bespeaks  health.  She  used  to 
make  many  of  her  own  clothes,  and  she  always  trimmed 
her  hats.  Mrs.  Brandeis  used  to  bring  home  material 
and  styles  from  her  Chicago  buying  trips,  and  Fanny's 
quick  mind  adapted  them.  She  managed,  somehow,  to 
look  miraculously  well  dressed. 

The  Christmas  following  Theodore's  marriage  was 
the  most  successful  one  in  the  history  of  Brandeis' 
Bazaar.  And  it  bred  in  Fanny  Brandeis  a  lifelong 
hatred  of  the  holiday  season.  In  years  after  she  always 
tried  to  get  away  from  the  city  at  Christmas  time.  The 
two  women  did  the  work  of  four  men.  They  had  a  big 
stock  on  hand.    Mrs.  Brandeis  was  everywhere  at  once. 


<A^ 


92  FANNY   HERSELF 

She  got  an  enormous  amount  of  work  out  of  her  clerks, 
and  they  did  not  resent  it.  It  is  a  gift  that  all  born  lead- 
ers have.  She  herself  never  sat  down,  and  the  clerks  un- 
consciously followed  her  example.  She  never  com- 
plained of  weariness,  she  never  lost  her  temper,  she 
never  lost  patience  with  a  customer,  even  the  tight- 
fisted  farmer  type  who  doled  their  money  out  with  that 
reluctance  found  only  in  those  who  have  wrung  it  from 
the  soil. 

In  the  midst  of  the  rush  she  managed,  somehow, 
never  to  fail  to  grasp  the  humor  of  a  situation.  A 
farmer  woman  came  in  for  a  doll's  head,  which  she  chose 
with  incredible  deliberation  and  pains.  As  it  was  being 
wrapped  she  explained  that  it  was  for  her  little  girl, 
Minnie.  She  had  promised  the  head  this  year.  Next 
Christmas  they  would  buy  a  body  for  it.  Molly  Bran- 
deis's  quick  sympathy  went  out  to  the  little  girl  who 
was  to  lavish  her  mother-love  on  a  doll's  head  for  a 
whole  year.  She  saw  the  head,  in  ghastly  decapitation, 
staring  stiffly  out  from  the  cushions  of  the  chill 
and  funereal  parlor  sofa,  and  the  small  Minnie  peer- 
ing in  to  feast  her  eyes  upon  its  blond  and  waxen 
beauty. 

"Here,"  she  had  said,  *'take  this,  and  sew  it  on  the 
head,  so  Minnie'll  have  something  she  can  hold,  at 
least."  And  she  had  wrapped  a  pink  cambric,  saw- 
dust-stuffed body  in  with  the  head. 

It  was  a  snowy  and  picturesque  Christmas,  and  in- 
tensely cold,  with  the  hard,  dry,  cutting  cold  of  Wis- 
^consin.  Near  the  door  the  little  store  was  freezing. 
Every  time  the  door  opened  it  let  in  a  blast.  Near  the 
big  glowing  stove  it  was  very  hot. 

The  aisles  were  packed  so  that  sometimes  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  wedge  one's  way  through.  The 
china  plates,  stacked  high,  fairly  melted  away,  as  did 
the  dolls  piled  on  the  counters.  Mrs.  Brandeis  im- 
ported her  china  and  dolls,  and  no  store  in  Winnebago, 


FANNY   HERSELF  93 

not  even  Gerretson's  big  department  store,  could  touch 
them  for  value. 

The  two  women  scarcely  stopped  to  eat  in  the  last 
ten  days  of  the  hoHday  rush.  Often  Annie,  the  girl 
who  had  taken  Mattie's  place  in  the  household,  would 
bring  down  their  supper,  hot  and  hot,  and  they  would 
eat  it  quickly  up  in  the  little  gallery  where  they  kept 
the  sleds,  and  doll  buggies,  and  drums.  At  night  (the 
store  was  open  until  ten  or  eleven  at  Christmas  time) 
they  would  trudge  home  through  the  snow,  so  numb  with 
weariness  that  they  hardly  minded  the  cold.  The  icy 
wind  cut  their  foreheads  like  a  knife,  and  made  the 
temples  ache.  The  snow,  hard  and  resilient,  squeaked 
beneath  their  heels.  They  would  open  the  front  door 
and  stagger  in,  blinking.  The  house  seemed  so  weirdly 
quiet  and  peaceful  after  the  rush  and  clamor  of  the 
store. 

"Don't  you  want  a  sandwich,  Mother,  with  a  glass 
of  beer?" 

"I'm  too  tired  to  eat  it,  Fanny.  I  just  want  to  get 
to  bed." 

Fanny  grew  to  hate  the  stock  phrases  that  met  her 
with  each  customer.  "I  want  something  for  a  little  boy 
about  ten.  He's  really  got  everything."  Or,  "I'm  look- 
ing for  a  present  for  a  lady  friend.  Do  you  think  a 
plate  would  be  nice  ?"  She  began  to  loathe  them — these 
satiated  little  boys,  these  unknown  friends,  for  whom 
she  must  rack  her  brains. 

They  cleared  a  snug  little  fortune  that  Christmas. 
On  Christmas  Eve  they  smiled  wanly  at  each  other, 
like  two  comrades  who  have  fought  and  bled  together, 
and  won.  When  they  left  the  store  it  was  nearly  mid- 
night. Belated  shoppers,  bundle-laden,  carrying  holly 
wreaths,  with  strange  handles,  and  painted  heads,  and 
sticks  protruding  from  lumpy  brown  paper  burdens, 
were  hurrying  home. 

They  stumbled  home,  too  spent  to  talk.     Fanny, 


94  FANNY   HERSELF 

groping  for  the  keyhole,  stubbed  her  toe  against  a 
wooden  box  between  the  storm  door  and  the  inner  door. 
It  had  evidently  been  left  there  by  the  expressman  or 
a  delivery  boy.     It  was  a  very  heavy  box. 

"A  Christmas  present !"  Fanny  exclaimed.  "Do  you 
think  it  is?  But  it  must  be."  She  looked  at  the  ad- 
dress, "Miss  Fanny  Brandeis."  She  went  to  the  kitchen 
for  a  crowbar,  and  came  back,  still  in  her  hat  and  coat. 
She  pried  open  the  box  expertly,  tore  away  the  wrap- 
pings, and  disclosed  a  gleaming  leather-bound  set  of 
Balzac,  and  beneath  that,  incongruously  enough,  Mark 
Twain. 

"Why !"  exclaimed  Fanny,  sitting  down  on  the  floor 
rather  heavily.  Then  her  eye  fell  upon  a  card  tossed 
aside  in  the  hurry  of  unpacking.  She  picked  it  up, 
read  it  hastily.  "Merry  Christmas  to  the  best  daughter 
in  the  world.    From  her  Mother." 

Mrs.  Brandeis  had  taken  off  her  wraps  and  was 
standing  over  the  sitting-room  register,  rubbing  her 
numbed  hands  and  smiling  a  little. 

"Why,  Mother!"  Fanny  scrambled  to  her  feet. 
"You  darling !  In  all  that  rush  and  work,  to  take  time 
to  think  of  me !  Why  1 — "  Her  arms  were  around  her 
mother's  shoulders.  She  was  pressing  her  glowing 
cheek  against  the  pale,  cold  one.  And  they  both  wept 
a  little,  from  emotion,  and  weariness,  and  relief,  and 
enjoyed  it,  as  women  sometimes  do. 

Fanny  made  her  mother  stay  in  bed  next  morning,  a 
thing  that  Mrs.  Brandeis  took  to  most  ungracefully. 
After  the  holiday  rush  and  strain  she  invariably  had  a 
severe  cold,  the  protest  of  the  body  she  had  over-driven 
and  under-nourished  for  two  or  three  weeks.  As  a  pa- 
tient she  was  as  trying  and  fractious  as  a  man,  tossing 
about,  threatening  to  get  up,  demanding  hot-water 
bags,  cold  compresses,  alcohol  rubs.  She  fretted  about 
the  business,  and  imagined  that  things  were  at  a  stand- 
still during  her  absence. 


FANNY   HERSELF  95 

Fanny  herself  rose  early.    Her  healthy  young  body, 
after  a  night's  sleep,  was  already  recuperating  from  j 
the  month's  strain.     She  had  planned  a  real  Christmas   j\ 
dinner,  to  banish  the  memory  of  the  hasty  and  unpal-  ^ ' 
atable  lunches  they  had  had  to  gulp  during  the  rush. 
There  was   to  be  a   turkey,  and  Fanny  had   warned 
Annie  not  to  touch  it.      She  wanted  to  stuff  it  and 
roast  it  herself.     She  spent  the  morning  in  the  kitchen, 
aside  from  an  occasional  tip-toeing  visit  to  her  mother's 
room.     At  eleven  she   found  her  mother  up,  and  no 
amount  of  coaxing  would  induce  her  to  go  back  to 
bed.     She  had  read  the  papers  and  she  said  she  felt 
rested  already. 

The  turkey  came  out  a  delicate  golden-brown,  and 
deliciously  crackly.  Fanny,  looking  up  over  a  drum- 
stick, noticed,  with  a  shock,  that  her  mother^s  eyes 
looked  strangely  sunken,  and  her  skin,  around  the  jaws 
and  just  under  the  chin,  where  her  loose  wrapper  re- 
vealed her  throat,  was  queerly  yellow  and  shriveled. 
She  had  eaten  almost  nothing. 

*'M other,  you're  not  eating  a  thing!  You  really 
must  eat  a  little." 

Mrs.  Brandeis  began  a  pretense  of  using  knife  and 
fork,  but  gave  it  up  finally  and  sat  back,  smiling  rather 
wanly.  *'I  guess  I'm  tireder  than  I  thought  I  was, 
dear.  I  think  I've  got  a  cold  coming  on,  too.  I'll 
lie  down  again  after  dinner,  and  by  to-morrow  I'll  be 
as  chipper  as  a  sparrow.  The  turkey's  wonderful,  isn't 
it?     I'll  have  some,  cold,  for  supper." 

After  dinner  the  house  felt  very  warm  and  stuffy. 
It  was  crisply  cold  and  sunny  outdoors.  The  snow 
was  piled  high  except  on  the  sidewalks,  where  it  had 
been  neatly  shoveled  away  by  the  mufflered  Winnebago 
sons  and  fathers.  There  was  no  man  in  the  Brandeis 
household,  and  Aloysius  had  been  too  busy  to  perform 
the  chores  usually  considered  his  work  about  the  house. 
The  snow  lay  in  drifts  upon  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 


96  FANNY   HERSELF 

the  Brandeis  house,  except  where  passing  feet  had  tram- 
pled it  a  bit. 

"I'm  going  to  shovel  the  walk,"  Fanny  announced 
suddenly.  "Way  around  to  the  woodshed.  Where  are 
those  old  mittens  of  mine?  Annie,  where's  the  snow 
shovel?     Sure  I  am.     Why  not?" 

She  shovoled  and  scraped  and  pounded,  bending 
rhythmically  to  the  work,  lifting  each  heaping  shovel- 
ful with  her  strong  young  arms,  tossing  it  to  the  side, 
digging  in  again,  and  under.  An  occasional  neighbor 
passed  by,  or  a  friend,  and  she  waved  at  them,  gayly, 
and  tossed  back  their  badinage.  "Merry  Christmas!" 
she  called,  again  and  again,  in  reply  to  a  passing  ac- 
quaintance.    "Same  to  you!" 

At  two  o'clock  Bella  Weinberg  telephoned  to  say 
that  a  little  party  of  them  were  going  to  the  river  to 
skate.  The  ice  was  wonderful.  Oh,  come  on!  Fanny 
skated  very  welL  But  she  hesitated.  Mrs.  Brandeis, 
dozing  on  the  couch,  sensed  what  was  going  on  in  her 
daughter's  mind,  and  roused  herself  with  something  of 
her  old  asperity. 

"Don't  be  foolish,  child.  Run  along!  You  don't 
intend  to  sit  here  and  gaze  upon  your  sleeping  beauty 
of  a  mother  all  afternoon,  do  you?    Well,  then!" 

So  Fanny  changed  her  clothes,  got  her  skates,  and 
ran  out  into  the  snap  and  sparkle  of  the  day.  The 
winter  darkness  had  settled  down  before  she  returned, 
all  glowing  and  rosy,  and  bright-eyed.  Her  blood  was 
racing  through  her  body.  Her  lips  were  parted.  The 
drudgery  of  the  past  three  weeks  seemed  to  have  been 
blotted  out  by  this  one  radiant  afternoon. 

The  house  was  dark  when  she  entered.  It  seemed 
very  quiet,  and  close,  and  depressing  after  the  sparkle 
and  rush  of  the  afternoon  on  the  river.  "Mother! 
Mother  dear!    Still  sleeping?" 

Mrs.  Brandeis  stirred,  sighed,  awoke.  Fanny  flicked 
on  the  light.     Her  mother  was  huddled  in  a  kimono 


FANNY   HERSELF  97 

on  the  sofa.    She  sat  up  rather  dazedly  now,  and  stared 
at  Fanny. 

"Why — what  time  is  it  ?  What  ?  Have  I  been  sleep- 
ing all  afternoon?    Your  mother's  getting  old." 

She  yawned,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  caught  her  breath 
with  a  little  cry  of  pain. 

"What  is  it?     What's  the  matter.?" 

Molly  Brandeis  pressed  a  hand  to  her  breast.  "A 
stitch,  I  guess.  It's  this  miserable  cold  coming  on.  Is 
there  any  asperin  in  the  house?  I'll  dose  myself  after 
supper,  and  take  a  hot  foot  bath  and  go  to  bed.  I'm 
dead." 

She  ate  less  for  supper  than  she  had  for  dinner. 
She  hardly  tasted  the  cup  of  tea  that  Fanny  insisted 
on  making  for  her.  She  swayed  a  little  as  she  sat,  and 
her  iids  came  down  over  her  eyes,  flutteringly,  as  if  the 
weight  of  them  was  too  great  to  keep  up.  At  seven  she 
was  up-stairs,  in  bed,  sleeping,  and  breathing  heavily. 

At  eleven,  or  thereabouts,  Fanny  woke  up  with  a 
a  start.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  wide-eyed,  peering  into  the 
darkness  and  listening.  Some  one  was  talking  in  a 
high,  queer  voice,  a  voice  like  her  mother's,  and  yet 
unlike.  She  ran,  shivering  with  the  cold,  into  her 
mother's  bedroom.  She  switched  on  the  light.  Mrs. 
Brandeis  was  lying  on  the  pillow,  her  eyes  almost  closed, 
except  for  a  terrifying  slit  of  white  that  showed  be- 
tween the  lids.  Her  head  was  tossing  to  and  fro  on 
the  pillow.  She  was  talking,  sometimes  clearly,  and 
sometimes  mumblingly. 

I  "One  gross  cups  and  saucers  .  .  .  and  now  what  do 
you  think  you'd  like  for  a  second  prize  ...  in  the 
basement,  Aloysius  .  .  .  the  trains  .  .  .  I'll  see  that 
they  get  there  to-day  .  .  .  yours  of  the  tenth  at 
hand  ..." 

"Mother!  Mother!  Molly  dear!"  She  shook  her 
gently,  then  almost  roughly.  The  voice  ceased.  The 
eyes  remained  the  same.     "Oh,  God!"     She  ran  to  the 


98  FANNY   HERSELF 

back  of  the  house.  "Annie !  Annie,  get  up !  Mother's 
sick.  She's  out  of  her  head.  I'm  going  to  'phone  for 
the  doctor.     Go  in  with  her." 

She  got  the  doctor  at  last.  She  tried  to  keep  her 
voice  under  control,  and  thought,  with  a  certain  pride, 
that  she  was  succeeding.  She  ran  up-stairs  again.  The 
voice  had  begun  again,  but  it  seemed  thicker  now.  She 
got  into  her  clothes,  shaking  with  cold  and  terror,  and 
yet  thinking  very  clearly,  as  she  always  did  in  a  crisis. 
She  put  clean  towels  in  the  bathroom,  pushed  the  table 
up  to  the  bed,  got  a  glass  of  water,  straightened  the 
covers,  put  away  the  clothes  that  the  tired  woman  had 
left  about  the  room.  Doctor  Hertz  came.  He  went 
through  the  usual  preliminaries,  listened,  tapped, 
counted,  straightened  up  at  last. 

"Fresh  air,"  he  said.  "Cold  air.  All  the  windows 
open."  They  rigged  up  a  device  of  screens  and  sheets 
to  protect  the  bed  from  the  drafts.  Fanny  obeyed  or- 
ders silently,  like  a  soldier.  But  her  eyes  went  from 
the  face  on  the  pillow  to  that  of  the  man  bent  over 
the  bed.  Something  vague,  cold,  clammy,  seemed  to  be 
closing  itself  around  her  heart.  It  was  like  an  icy  hand, 
squeezing  there.  There  had  suddenly  sprung  up  that 
indefinable  atmosphere  of  the  sick-room — a  sick-room 
in  which  a  fight  is  being  waged.  Bottles  on  the  table, 
glasses,  a  spoon,  a  paper  shade  over  the  electric  light 
globe. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Fanny,  at  last.    "Grip ?— grip ?" 

Doctor  Hertz  hesitated  a  moment.    '^Pneumonia." 

Fanny's  hands  grasped  the  footboard  tightly.  "Do 
you  think  we'd  better  have  a  nurse.?'* 

"Yes." 

The  nurse  seemed  to  be  there,  somehow,  miraculously. 
And  the  morning  came.  And  in  the  kitchen  Annie  went 
about  her  work,  a  little  more  quietly  than  usual.  And 
yesterday  seemed  far  away.  It  was  afternoon;  it  was 
twilight.    Doctor  Hertz  had  been  there  for  hours.    The 


FANNY   HERSELF  99 

last  time  he  brought  another  doctor  with  him — Thorn. 
Mrs.  Brandeis  was  not  talking  now.  But  she  was 
breathing.  It  filled  the  room,  that  breathing;  it  filled 
the  house.  Fanny  took  her  mother's  hand,  that  hand 
with  the  work-hardened  palm  and  the  broken  nails.  It 
was  very  cold.  She  looked  down  at  it.  The  nails  were 
blue.  She  began  to  rub  it.  She  looked  up  into  the 
faces  of  the  two  men.  She  picked  up  the  other  hand — 
snatched  at  it.  "Look  here!"  she  said.  "Look  here!" 
And  then  she  stood  up.  The  vague,  clammy  thing  that 
had  been  wound  about  her  heart  suddenly  relaxed.  And 
at  that  something  icy  hot  rushed  all  over  her  body  and 
shook  her.  She  came  around  to  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and  gripped  it  with  her  two  hands.  Her  chin  was 
thrust  forward,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  and  staring. 
She  looked  very  much  like  her  mother,  just  then.  It 
was  a  fighting  face.     A  desperate  face. 

"Look  here,"  she  began,  and  was  surprised  to  find 
that  she  was  only  whispering.  She  wet  her  lips  and 
smiled,  and  tried  again,  forming  the  words  carefully 
with  her  lips.  "Look  here.  She's  dying — isn't  she? 
Isn't  she!     She's  dying,  isn't  she?" 

Doctor  Hertz  pursed  his  lips.  The  nurse  came  over 
to  her,  and  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  Fanny  shook 
her  off. 

"Answer  me.  I've  got  a  right  to  know.  Look  at 
this !"  She  reached  forward  and  picked  up  that  inert, 
cold,  strangely  shriveled  blue  hand  again. 

"My  dear  child — I'm  afraid  so." 

There  came  from  Fanny's  throat  a  moan  that  began 
high,  and  poignant,  and  quavering,  and  ended  in  a 
shiver  that  seemed  to  die  in  her  heart.  The  room  was 
still  again,  except  for  the  breathing,  and  even  that  was 
less  raucous. 

Fanny  stared  at  the  woman  on  the  bed — at  the  long, 
finely-shaped  head,  with  the  black  hair  wadded  up  so 
carelessly  now;  at  the  long,  straight,  clever  nose;  the 


100  FANNY   HERSELF 

full,  generous  mouth.     There  flooded  her  whole  being 

a  great,  blinding  rage.     What  had  she  had  of  life.?  she 

demanded  fiercely.     What.'^     What.^*     Her  teeth  came 

together   grindingly.      She   breathed   heavily   through 

her  nostrils,  as  if  she  had  been  running.     And  sud- 

|\  denly  she  began  to  pray,  not  with  the  sounding,  unc- 

I  tious  thees   and  thous  of  the  Church  and  Bible ;  not 

"^  j  elegantly  or  eloquently,  with  well-rounded  phrases,  as 

I  the  righteous  pray,  but  threateningly,  hoarsely,  as  a 

desperate  woman  prays.    It  was  not  a  prayer  so  much 

^;€)X'       ,as  a  cry  of  defiance — a  challenge, 

"Look  here,  God!"  and  there  was  nothing  profane 
as  she  said  it.  "Look  here,  God !  She's  done  her  part. 
I  It's  up  to  You  now.  Don't  You  let  her  die!  Look 
I  at  her.  Look  at  her!"  She  choked  and  shook  herself 
angrily,  and  went  on.  "Is  that  fair.?  That's  a  rotten 
trick  to  play  on  a  woman  that  gave  what  she  gave! 
What  did  she  ever  have  of  life.?  Nothing!  That  little 
miserable,  dirty  store,  and  those  little  miserable,  dirty 
people.     You  give  her  a  chance,  d'You  hear.?     You 

give  her  a  chance,  God,  or  I'll " 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  thin,  cracked  quaver.  The 
nurse  turned  her  around,  suddenly  and  sharply,  and 
]«d  her  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

YOU  can  come  down  now.  They're  all  here,  I  guess. 
Doctor  Thalmann's  going  to  begin."  Fanny, 
huddled  in  a  chair  in  her  bedroom,  looked  up  into  the 
plump,  kindly  face  of  the  woman  who  was  bending  over  * ' 
her.  Then  she  stood  up,  docilely,  and  walked  toward 
the  stairs  with  a  heavy,  stumbling  step. 

"I'd  put  down  my  veil  if  I  were  you,"  said  the 
neighbor  woman.  And  reached  up  for  the  black  folds 
that  draped  Fanny's  hat.  Fanny's  fingers  reached  for 
them  too,  fumblingly.  "I'd  forgotten  about  it,"  she 
said.  The  heavy  crape  fell  about  her  shoulders,  merci- 
fully hiding  the  swollen,  discolored  face.  She  went 
down  the  stairs.  There  was  a  little  stir,  a  swaying 
toward  her,  a  sibilant  murmur  of  sympathy  from  the 
crowded  sitting-room  as  she  passed  through  to  the 
parlor  where  Rabbi  Thalmann  stood  waiting,  prayer 
book  in  hand,  in  front  of  that  which  was  covered  with 
flowers.  Fanny  sat  down.  A  feeling  of  unreality  was 
strong  upon  her.  Doctor  Thalmann  cleared  his  throat 
and  opened  the  book.  ^.. 

After  all,  it  was  not  Rabbi  Thalmann's  funeral  ser-  ( 
mon  that  testified  to  Mrs.  Brandeis's  standing  in  the    \ 
community.     It  was  the  character  of  the  gathering 
that  listened  to  what  he  had  to  say.    Each  had  his  own 
opinion  of  Molly  Brandeis,  and  needed  no  final  eulogy   " 
to  confirm  it.    Father  Fitzpatrick  was  there,  tall,  hand- 
some, ruddy,  the  two  wings  of  white  showing  at  the  tem- 
ples making  him  look  more  than  ever  like  a  leading  man. 
He  had  been  of  those  who  had  sat  in  what  he  called 
Mrs.  Brandeis's  confessional,  there  in  the  quiet  little 

.  .101 


102.:  FAISFsN;^   herself 

stote!,  .  ^he 'Jltfxi  had'.tal6ed  of  things  theological  and 
things  eai  thy.  '  IliW  wit; '  quick  though  it  was,  was  no 
match  for  hers,  but  they  both  had  a  humor  sense  and  a 
drama  sense,  and  one  day  they  discovered,  queerly 
enough,  that  they  worshiped  the  same  God.  Any  one 
of  these  things  is  basis  enough  for  a  friendship.  Be- 
sides, Molly  Brandeis  could  tell  an  Irish  story  inimi- 
tably. And  you  should  have  heard  Father  Fitzpatrick 
do  the  one  about  Ikey  and  the  nickel.  No,  I  think  the 
Catholic  priest,  seeming  to  listen  with  such  respectful 
attention,  really  heard  very  little  of  what  Rabbi  Thal- 
mann  had  to  say. 

Herman  Walthers  was  there,  he  of  the  First  Na- 
tional Bank  of  Winnebago,  whose  visits  had  once 
brought  such  terror  to  Molly  Brandeis.  Augustus  G. 
Gerretson  was  there,  and  three  of  his  department  heads. 
Emil  Bauer  sat  just  behind  him.  In  a  corner  was 
Sadie,  the  erstwhile  coquette,  very  subdued  now,  and 
months  behind  the  fashions  in  everything  but  baby 
clothes.  Hen  Cody,  who  had  done  all  of  Molly  Bran- 
deis's  draying,  sat,  in  unaccustomed  black,  next  to 
Mayor  A.  J.  Dawes.  Temple  Emmanu-el  was  there,  al- 
most a  unit.  The  officers  of  Temple  Emanu-el  Ladies' 
Aid  Society  sat  in  a  row.  They  had  never  honored 
Molly  Brandeis  with  office  in  the  society — she  who  could 
have  managed  its  business,  politics  and  social  activi- 
ties with  one  hand  tied  behind  her,  and  both  her  bright 
eyes  shut.  In  the  kitchen  and  on  the  porch  and  in  the 
hallway  stood  certain  obscure  people — women  whose 
finger  tips  stuck  out  of  their  cotton  gloves,  and  whose 
skirts  dipped  ludicrously  in  the  back.  Only  Molly 
Brandeis  could  have  identified  them  for  you.  Mrs. 
Brosch,  the  butter  and  egg  woman,  hovered  in  the  din- 
ing-room doorway.  She  had  brought  a  pound  of  but- 
ter. It  was  her  contribution  to  the  funeral  baked  meats. 
She  had  deposited  it  furtively  on  the  kitchen  table. 
Birdie  Callahan,  head  waitress  at  the  Haley  House, 


FANNY   HERSELF  108 

found  a  seat  just  next  to  the  elegant  Mrs.  Morehouse, 
who  led  the  Golf  Club  crowd.  A  haughty  young  lady 
in  the  dining-room,  Birdie  Callahan,  in  her  stiffly 
starched  white,  but  beneath  the  icy  crust  of  her  hau- 
teur was  a  molten  mass  of  good  humor  and  friendli- 
ness. She  and  Molly  Brandeis  had  had  much  in  com- 
mon. 

But  no  one — not  even  Fanny  Brandeis — ever  knewj 
who  sent  the  great  cluster  of  American  Beauty  roses 
that  had  come  all  the  way  from  Milwaukee.  There  > 
had  been  no  card,  so  who  could  have  guessed  that  they  i 
came  from  Blanche  Devine.  Blanche  Devine,  of  the 
white  powder,  and  the  minks,  and  the  diamonds,  and  the 
high-heeled  shoes,  and  the  plumes,  lived  in  the  house 
with  the  closed  shutters,  near  the  freight  depot.  She 
often  came  into  Brandeis'  Bazaar.  Molly  Brandeis 
had  never  allowed  Sadie,  or  Pearl,  or  Fanny  or  Aloy- 
sius  to  wait  on  her.  She  had  attended  to  her  herself. 
And  one  day,  for  some  reason,  Blanche  Devine  found 
herself  telling  Molly  Brandeis  how  she  had  come  to  be 
Blanche  Devine,  and  it  was  a  moving  and  terrible  story. 
And  now  her  cardless  flowers,  a  great,  scarlet  sheaf 
of  them,  lay  next  the  chaste  white  roses  that  had  been 
sent  by  the  Temple  Emanu-el  Ladies'  Aid.  Truly, 
death  is  a  great  leveler. 

In  a  vague  way  Fanny  seemed  to  realize  that  all 
these  people  were  there.  I  think  she  must  even  have 
found  a  certain  grim  comfort  in  their  presence.  Hers 
had  not  been  the  dry-eyed  grief  of  the  strong,  such  as 
you  read  about.  She  had  wept,  night  and  day,  hope- 
lessly, inconsolably,  torturing  herself  with  remorseful 
questions.  If  she  had  not  gone  skating,  might  she  not 
have  seen  how  ill  her  mother  was  ?  Why  hadn't  she  in- 
sisted on  the  doctor  when  her  mother  refused  to  eat  the 
Christmas  dinner?  Blind  and  selfish,  she  told  herself; 
blind  and  selfish.  Her  face  was  swollen  and  distorted 
now,   and   she  was  thankful  for  the  black  veil  that 


104  FANNY   HERSELF 

shielded  her.  Winnebago  was  scandalized  to  see  that 
she  wore  no  other  black.  Mrs.  Brandeis  had  never 
wanted  Fanny  to  wear  it ;  she  hadn't  enough  color,  she 
said.  So  now  she  was  dressed  in  her  winter  suit  of 
blue,  and  her  hat  with  the  pert  blue  quill.  And  the 
little  rabbi's  voice  went  on  and  on,  and  Fanny  knew 
that  it  could  not  be  true.  What  had  all  this  dust-to- 
dust  talk  to  do  with  any  one  as  vital,  and  electric,  and 
constructive  as  Molly  Brandeis.  In  the  midst  of  the 
service  there  was  a  sharp  cry,  and  a  little  stir,  and  the 
sound  of  stifled  sobbing.  It  was  Aloysius  the  merry, 
Aloysius  the  faithful,  whose  Irish  heart  was  quite 
broken.  Fanny  ground  her  teeth  together  in  an  effort 
at  self-control. 

And  so  to  the  end,  and  out  past  the  little  hushed,  re- 
spectful group  on  the  porch,  to  the  Jewish  cemetery 
on  the  state  road.  The  snow  of  Christmas  week  was 
quite  virgin  there,  except  for  that  one  spot  where  the 
sexton  and  his  men  had  been  at  work.  Then  back  at 
a  smart  jog  trot  through  the  early  dusk  of  the  winter 
afternoon,  the  carriage  wheels  creaking  upon  the  hard, 
dry  snow.  And  Fanny  Brandeis  said  to  herself  (she 
must  have  been  a  little  light-headed  from  hunger  and 
weeping) : 

"Now  I'll  know  whether  it's  true  or  not.  When  I 
go  into  the  house.  If  she's  there  she'll  say,  'Well 
Fanchen !  Hungry  ?  Oh,  but  my  little  girl's  hands  are 
cold!  Come  here  to  the  register  and  warm  them.'  O 
God,  let  her  be  there!     Let  her  be  there!" 

But  she  wasn't.  The  house  had  been  set  to  rights  by;, 
brisk  and  unaccustomed  hands.  There  was  a  bustle 
and  stir  in  the  dining-room,  and  from  the  kitchen  came 
the  appetizing  odors  of  cooking  food.  Fanny  went  up 
to  a  chair  that  was  out  of  its  place,  and  shoved  it  back 
against  the  wall  where  it  belonged.  She  straightened  a 
rug,  carried  the  waste  basket  from  the  desk  to  the 
spot  near  the  living-room  table  where  it  had  always 


FANNY   HERSELF  105 

served  to  hide  the  shabby,  worn  place  In  the  rug. 
Fanny  went  up-stairs,  past  The  Room  that  was  once 
more  just  a  comfortable,  old  fashioned  bedroom,  in- 
stead of  a  mysterious  and  awful  chamber;  bathed  her 
face,  tidied  her  hair,  came  down-stairs  again,  ate  and 
drank  things  hot  and  revivifying.  The  house  was  full 
of  kindly  women. 

Fanny  found  herself  clinging  to  them — clinging  des- 
perately to  these  ample,  broad-bosomed,  soothing 
women  whom  she  had  scarcely  known  before.  They 
were  always  there,  those  women,  and  their  husbands 
too;  kindly,  awkward  men,  who  patted  her  shoulder, 
and  who  spoke  of  Molly  Brandeis  with  that  sincerity  of 
admiration  such  as  men  usually  give  only  to  men.  Peo- 
ple were  constantly  popping  in  at  the  back  door  with 
napkin-covered  trays,  and  dishes  and  baskets.  A  won- 
derful and  beautiful  thing,  that  homely  small-town  sym- 
pathy that  knows  the  value  of  physical  comfort  in  time 
of  spiritual  anguish. 

Two  days  after  the  funeral  Fanny  Brandeis  went 
back  to  the  store,  much  as  her  mother  had  done  many 
years  before,  after  her  husband's  death.  She  looked 
about  at  the  bright,  well-stocked  shelves  and  tables 
with  a  new  eye — a  speculative  eye.  The  Christmas  sea- 
son was  over.  January  was  the  time  for  inventory  and 
for  replenishment.  Mrs.  Brandeis  had  always  gone  to 
Chicago  the  second  week  in  January  for  the  spring 
stock.  But  something  was  forming  in  Fanny  Bran- 
deis's  mind — a  resolve  that  grew  so  rapidly  as  to  take 
her  breath  away.  Her  brain  felt  strangely  clear  and 
keen  after  the  crashing  storm  of  grief  that  had  shaken 
her  during  the  past  week. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  people  had  asked 
her,  curious  and  interested.  "Is  Theodore  coming 
back?" 

"I  don't  know — yet."  In  answer  to  the  first.  And, 
f^'No.    Why  should  he?    He  has  his  work." 


106  FANN^   HERSELF 

"But  he  could  be  of  such  help  to  you." 

*'I'll  help  myself,"  said  Fanny  Brandeis,  and  smiled 
a  curious  smile  that  had  in  it  more  of  bitterness  and  less 
of  mirth  than  any  smile  has  a  right  to  have. 

Mrs.  Brandeis  had  left  a  will,  far-sighted  business 
woman  that  she  was.  It  was  a  terse,  clear-headed  docu- 
ment, that  gave  "to  Fanny  Brandeis,  my  daughter," 
the  six-thousand-dollar  insurance,  the  stock,  good-will 
and  fixtures  of  Brandeis'  Bazaar,  the  house  furnish- 
ings, the  few  pieces  of  jewelry  in  their  old-fashioned 
setting.  To  Theodore  was  left  the  sum  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred dollars.  He  had  received  his  share  in  the  years  of 
his  musical  education. 

Fanny  Brandeis  did  not  go  to  Chicago  that  Janu- 
ary. She  took  inventory  of  Brandeis'  Bazaar,  care- 
fully and  minutely.  And  then,  just  as  carefully  and 
minutely  she  took  stock  of  Fanny  Brandeis.  There 
was  something  relentless  and  terrible  in  the  way 
she  went  about  this  self-analysis.  She  walked  a  great 
deal  that  winter,  often  out  through  the  drifts  to  the 
little  cemetery.  As  she  walked  her  mind  was  work- 
ing, working.  She  held  long  mental  conversations  with 
herself  during  these  walks,  and  once  she  was  rather 
frightened  to  find  herself  talking  aloud.  She  wondered 
if  she  had  done  that  before.  And  a  plan  was  maturing 
in  her  brain,  while  the  fight  went  on  within  herself, 
thus: 

"You'll  never  do  it,  Fanny.  You're  not  built  that 
way." 

"Oh,  won't  I!     Watch  me!     Give  me  time." 

"You'll  think  of  what  your  mother  would  have  done 
tinder  the  same  conditions,  and  you'll  do  that  thing." 

"I  won't.  Not  unless  it's  the  long-headed  thing  to 
do.  I'm  through  being  sentimental  and  unselfish. 
What  did  it  bring  her.?     Nothing!" 

The  weeks  went  by.  Fanny  worked  hard  in  the 
store,  and  bought  little.     February  came,  and  with 


FANNY   HERSELF  107 

the  spring  her  months  of  private  thinking  bore  fruit. 
There  came  to  Fanny  Brandeis  a  great  resolve.  She 
would  put  herself  in  a  high  place.  Every  talent  she 
possessed,  every  advantage,  every  scrap  of  knowledge, 
every  bit  of  experience,  would  be  used  toward  that  end. 
She  would  make  something  of  herself.  It  was  a  worldly, 
selfish  resolve,  born  of  a  bitter  sorrow,  and  ambition, 
and  resentment.  She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
admit  no  handicaps.  Race,  religion,  training,  natural 
impulses — she  would  discard  them  all  if  they  stood 
in  her  way.  She  would  leave  Winnebago  behind.  At 
best,  if  she  stayed  there,  she  could  never  accomplish 
more  than  to  make  her  business  a  more  than  ordinarily 
successful  small-town  store.  And  she  would  be — no- 
body. No,  she  had  had  enough  of  that.  She  would 
crush  and  destroy  the  little  girl  who  had  fasted  on 
that  Day  of  Atonement ;  the  more  mature  girl  who 
had  written  the  thesis  about  the  paper  mill  rag-room; 
the  young  woman  who  had  drudged  in  the  store  on 
Elm  Street.  In  her  place  she  would  mold  a  hard,  keen- 
eyed,  resolute  woman,  whose  godhead  was  to  be  suc- 
cess, and  to  whom  success  would  mean  money  and  posi- 
tion. She  had  not  a  head  for  mathematics,  but  out  of 
the  puzzling  problems  and  syllogisms  in  geometry  she 
had  retained  in  her  memory  this  one  immovable  truth: 

A  straight  line  is  the  shortest  distance  between  two 
points. 

With  her  mental  eye  she  marked  her  two  points, 
and  then,  starting  from  the  first,  made  directly  for 
the  second.  But  she  forgot  to  reckon  with  the  law  of 
tangents.  She  forgot,  too,  how  paradoxical  a  creature 
was  this  Fanny  Brandeis  whose  eyes  filled  with  tears 
at  sight  of  a  parade — ^just  the  sheer  drama  of  it — 
were  the  marchers  G.  A.  R.  veterans,  school  children 
in  white,  soldiers,  Foresters,  political  marching  clubs; 
and  whose  eyes  burned  dry  and  bright  as  she  stood 
over  the  white  mound  in  the  cemetery  on  the  state 


108  FANNY   HERSELF 

road.        Generous,     spontaneous,     impulsive,     warm- 
hearted, she  would  be  cold,  calculating,  deliberate,  she 
told  herself. 
(S)  Thousands  of  years  of  persecution  behind  her  made 

^v^V^^er  quick  to  appreciate  suffering  in  others,  and  gave 
her  an  innate  sense  of  fellowship  with  the  downtrodden. 
/  She  resolved  to  use  that  sense  as  a  searchlight  aiding 
J^.6f^'  her  to  see  and  overcome  obstacles.  She  told  herself 
that  she  was  done  with  maudlin  sentimentality.  On  the 
rare  occasions  when  she  had  accompanied  her  mother 
to  Chicago,  the  two  women  had  found  dehght  in  wan- 
dering about  the  city's  foreign  quarters.  When  other 
small-town  women  buyers  snatched  occasional  moments 
of  leisure  for  the  theater  or  personal  shopping,  these 
two  had  spent  hours  in  the  ghetto  around  Jefferson 
and  Taylor,  and  Fourteenth  Streets.  Something  in 
the  sight  of  these  people — alien,  hopeful,  emotional, 
often  grotesque — thrilled  and  interested  both  the 
women.  And  at  sight  of  an  ill-clad  Italian,  with  his 
slovenly,  wrinkled  old-young  wife,  turning  the  handle 
of  his  grind  organ  whilst  both  pairs  of  eyes  searched 
windows  and  porches  and  doorsteps  with  a  hopeless 
sort  of  hopefulness,  she  lost  her  head  entirely  and 
emptied  her  limp  pocketbook  of  dimes,  and  nickels, 
and  pennies.  Incidentally  it  might  be  stated  that  she 
loved  the  cheap  and  florid  music  of  the  hand  organ 
itself. 

It  was  rumored  that  Brandeis'  Bazaar  was  for  sale* 
In  the  spring  Gerretson's  offered  Fanny  the  position 
of  buyer  and  head  of  the  china,  glassware,  and  kitchen- 
ware  sections.  Gerretson's  showed  an  imposing  block 
of  gleaming  plate-glass  front  now,  and  drew  custom 
from  a  dozen  thrifty  little  towns  throughout  the  Fox 
River  Valley.  Fanny  refused  the  offer.  In  March  she 
sold  outright  the  stock,  good-will,  and  fixtures  of 
Brandeis'  Bazaar.  The  purchaser  was  a  thrifty,  far- 
sighted  traveling  man  who  had  wearied  of  the  road 


FANNY   HERSELF  100 

and  wanted  to  settle  down.  She  sold  the  household 
goods  too — those  intimate,  personal  pieces  of  wood 
and  cloth  that  had  become,  somehow,  part  of  her  life. 
She  had  grown  up  with  them.  She  knew  the  history 
of  every  nick,  every  scratch  and  worn  spot.  Her 
mother  lived  again  in  every  piece.  The  old  couch  went 
off  in  a  farmer's  wagon.  Fanny  turned  away  when 
they  joggled  it  down  the  front  steps  and  into  the  rude 
vehicle.  It  was  like  another  funeral.  She  was  furious 
to  find  herself  weeping  again.  She  promised  herself 
punishment  for  that. 

Up  in  her  bedroom  she  opened  the  bottom  drawer 
of  her  bureau.  That  bureau  and  its  history  and  the 
history  of  every  piece  of  furniture  in  the  room  bore 
mute  testimony  to  the  character  of  its  occupant;  to 
her  protest  against  things  as  she  found  them,  and  her 
determination  to  make  them  over  to  suit  her.  She  had 
spent  innumerable  Sunday  mornings  wielding  the  magic  ■  ^JJ 
paint  brush  that  had  transformed  the  bedroom  from  ^ 
dingy  oak  to  gleaming  cream  enamel.  She  sat  down 
on  the  floor  now,  before  the  bureau,  and  opened  the 
bottom  drawer. 

In  a  corner  at  the  back,  under  the  neat  pile  of  gar* 
ments,  was  a  tightly-rolled  bundle  of  cloth.  Fanny 
reached  for  it,  took  it  out,  and  held  it  in  her  hands 
a  moment.  Then  she  unrolled  it  slowly,  and  the  bundle 
revealed  itself  to  be  a  faded,  stained,  voluminous  ging^- 
ham  apron,  blue  and  white.  It  was  the  kind  of  apron 
women  don  when  they  perform  some  very  special  house- 
hold ritual — ^baking,  preserving,  house  cleaning.  It 
crossed  over  the  shoulders  with  straps,  and  its  generous 
fullness  ran  all  the  way  around  the  waist.  It  was  dis- 
colored in  many  places  with  the  brown  and  reddish , 
stains  of  fruit  juices.  It  had  been  Moll}'  Brandeis' 
canning  apron.  Fanny  had  come  upon  it  hanging  on 
a  hook  behind  the  kitchen  door,  after  that  week  in 
December.     And  at  sight  of  it  all  her  fortitude  and 


110  FANNY   HERSELE 

forced  calm  had  fled.  She  had  spread  her  arms  over 
the  limp,  mute,  yet  speaking  thing  dangling  there,  and 
had  wept  so  wildly  and  uncontrollably  as  to  alarm 
even  herself. 

Nothing  In  connection  with  her  mother's  death  had 
power  to  call  up  such  poignant  memories  as  did  this 
homely,  intimate  garment.  She  saw  again  the  steamy 
kitchen,  deliciously  scented  with  the  perfume  of  cook- 
ing fruit,  or  the  tantalizing,  mouth-watering  spiciness 
of  vinegar  and  pickles.  On  the  stove  the  big  dishpan, 
in  which  the  jelly  glasses  and  fruit  jars,  with  their 
tops  and  rubbers,  bobbed  about  in  hot  water.  In  the 
great  granite  kettle  simmered  the  cooking  fruit*  Molly 
Brandeis,  enveloped  in  the  familiar  blue-and-white 
apron,  stood  over  it,  like  a  priestess,  stirring,  stirring, 
slowly,  rhythmically.  Her  face  would  be  hot  and  moist 
with  the  steam,  and  very  tired  too,  for  she  often  came 
home  from  the  store  utterly  weary,  to  stand  over  the 
kettle  until  ten  or  eleven  o'clock.  But  the  pride  in 
it  as  she  counted  the  golden  or  ruby  tinted  tumblers 
gleaming  in  orderly  rows  as  they  cooled  on  the  kitchen 
table ! 

"Fifteen  glasses  of  grape  jell.  Fan!  And  I  didn't 
mix  a  bit  of  apple  with  it.  I  didn't  think  I'd  get  more 
than  ten.  And  nine  of  the  quince  preserve.  That 
makes — let  me  see — eighty-three,  ninety-eight— one 
hundred  and  seven  altogether." 

^'We'U  never  eat  it.  Mother." 

"You  said  that  last  year,  and  by  April  my  preserve 
cupboard  looked  like  Old  Mother  Hubbard's." 

But  then,  Mrs.  Brandeis  was  famous  for  her  pre- 
serves, as  Father  Fitzpatrick,  and  Aloysius,  and  Doc- 
tor Thalmann,  and  a  dozen  others  could  testify.  After 
the  strain  and  flurry  of  a  busy  day  at  the  store  there 
was  something  about  this  homely  household  rite  that 
brought  a  certain  sense  of  rest  and  peace  to  Molly 
Brandeis. 


FANNY   HERSELF  111 

All  this  moved  through  Fanny  Brandeis's  mind  as 
she  sat  with  the  crumpled  apron  in  her  lap,  her  eyes 
swimming  with  hot  tears.  The  very  stains  that  dis- 
colored it,  the  faded  blue  of  the  front  breadth,  the 
frayed  buttonhole,  the  little  scorched  place  where  she 
had  burned  a  hole  when  trying  unwisely  to  lift  a  steam- 
ling  kettle  from  the  stove  with  the  apron's  corner, 
spoke  to  her  with  eloquent  lips.  That  apron  had  be- 
come a  vice  with  Fanny.  She  brooded  over  it  as  a 
mother  broods  over  the  shapeless,  scuffled  bit  of  leather 
that  was  a  baby's  shoe;  as  a  woman,  widowed,  clings 
to  a  shabby,  frayed  old  smoking  jacket.  More  than 
once  she  had  cried  herself  to  sleep  with  the  apron 
clasped  tightly  in  her  arms. 

She  got  up  from  the  floor  now,  with  the  apron  in 
her  hands,  and  went  down  the  stairs,  opened  the  door 
that  led  to  the  cellar,  walked  heavily  down  those  steps 
and  over  to  the  furnace.  She  flung  open  the  furnace 
door.  Red  and  purple  the  coal  bed  gleamed,  with  little 
white  flame  sprites  dancing  over  it.  Fanny  stared  at 
it  a  moment,  fascinated.  Her  face  was  set,  her  eyes 
brilliant.  Suddenly  she  flung  the  tightly-rolled  apron 
into  the  heart  of  the  gleaming  mass.  She  shut  her 
eyes  then.  The  fire  seemed  to  hold  its  breath  for  a 
moment.  Then,  with  a  gasp,  it  sprang  upon  its  food. 
The  bundle  stiffened,  writhed,  crumpled,  sank,  lay  a 
blackened  heap,  was  dissolved.  The  fire  bed  glowed 
red  and  purple  as  before,  except  for  a  dark  spot  in 
its  heart.  Fanny  shivered  a  little.  She  shut  the 
furnace  door  and  went  up-stairs  again. 

"Smells  like  something  burning — cloth,  or  some^ 
thing,"  called  Annie,  from  the  kitchen. 

'*It's  only  an  old  apron  that  was  cluttering  up  my 
— my  bureau  drawer." 

Thus  she  successfully  demonstrated  the  first  lessor 
in  the  cruel  and  rigid  course  of  mental  training  she 
had  mapped  out  for  herself. 


112  FANNY   HERSELF 

Leaving  Winnebago  was  not  easy.  There  is  some- 
thing about  a  small  town  that  holds  you.  Your  life 
is  so  intimately  interwoven  with  that  of  your  neigh- 
bor. Existence  is  so  safe,  so  sane,  so  sure.  Fanny 
knew  that  when  she  turned  the  corner  of  Elm  Street 
every  third  person  she  met  would  speak  to  her.  Life 
was  made  up  of  minute  details,  too  trivial  for  the 
notice  of  the  hurrying  city  crowds.  You  knew  when 
Milly  Glaenzer  changed  the  baby  buggy  for  a  go- 
cart.  The  youngest  Hupp  boy — Sammy — who  was 
graduated  from  High  School  in  June,  is  driving  A.  J. 
Dawes's  automobile  now.  My  goodness,  how  time 
flies!  Doeppler's  grocery  has  put  in  plate-glass  win- 
dows, and  they're  getting  out-of-season  vegetables 
every  day  now  from  Milwaukee.  As  you  pass  you  get 
the  coral  glow  of  tomatoes,  and  the  tender  green  of 
lettuces.  And  that  vivid  green?  Fresh  young  peas! 
And  in  February.  Well!  They've  torn  down  the  old 
yellow  brick  National  Bank,  and  in  its  place  a  chaste 
Greek  Temple  of  a  building  looks  rather  contemptu- 
ously down  its  classic  columns  upon  the  farmer's 
wagons  drawn  up  along  the  curb.  If  Fanny  Brandeis' 
sense  of  proportion  had  not  been  out  of  plumb  she 
might  have  realized  that,  to  Winnebago,  the  new  First 
National  Bank  building  was  as  significant  and  epochal 
as  had  been  the  Woolworth  Building  to  New  York. 

The  very  intimacy  of  these  details,  Fanny  argued, 
was  another  reason  for  leaving  Winnebago.  They 
were  like  detaining  fingers  that  grasped  at  your  skirts, 
impeding  your  progress. 

She  had  early  set  about  pulling  every  wire  within 
her  reach  that  might  lead,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the 
furtherance  of  her  ambition.  She  got  two  ©fibers  from 
Milwaukee  retail  stores.  She  did  not  consider  them 
for  a  moment.  Even  a  Chicago  department  store  of 
the  second  grade  (one  of  those  on  the  wrong  side 
of  State  Street)  did  not  tempt  her.     She  knew  her 


FANNY   HERSELF  113 

value.  She  could  afford  to  wait.  There  was  money 
enough  on  which  to  live  comfortably  until  the  right 
chance  presented  itself.  She  knew  every  item  of  her 
equipment,  and  she  conned  them  to  herself  greedily: 
Definite  charm  of  manner;  the  thing  that  is  called 
magnetism ;  brains ;  imagination ;  driving  force ;  health ; 
youth;  and,  most  precious  of  all,  that  which  money 
could  not  buy,  nor  education  provide — experience.  Ex- 
perience, a  priceless  weapon,  that  is  beaten  into  shape 
only  by  much  contact  with  men  and  women,  and  that 
is  sharpened  by  much  rubbing  against  the  rough  edges 
of  this  world. 

In  April  her  chance  came  to  her;  came  in  that  acci- 
dental, haphazard  way  that  momentous  happenings 
have.  She  met  on  Elm  Street  a  traveling  man  from 
whom  Molly  Brandeis  had  bought  for  years.  He 
dropped  both  sample  cases  and  shook  hands  with 
Fanny,  eying  her  expertly  and  approvingly,  and  yet 
without  insolence.  He  was  a  wise,  roaid-weary,  skill- 
ful member  of  his  fraternity,  grown  gray  in  years  of 
service,  and  a  little  bitter.  Though  perhaps  that  was 
due  partly  to  traveling  man's  dyspepsia,  brought  on 
by  years  of  small-town  hotel  food. 

"So  you've  sold  out." 

*'Yes.     Over  a  month  ago." 

"H'm.  That  was  a  nice  little  business  you  had 
there.  Your  ma  built  it  up  herself.  There  was  a 
woman!  Gosh!  Discounted  her  bills,  even  during  the 
panic." 

Fanny  smiled  a  reflective  little  smile.  *^That  line 
is  a  complete  characterization  of  my  mother.  Her 
life  was  a  series  of  panics.  But  she  never  lost  her 
head.     And  she  always  discounted." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  '«Well,  glad  I  met  you."  He 
picked  up  his  sample  cases.  "You  leaving  Winner 
bago?" 

"Yes." 


114  FANNY   HERSELF 

"Going  to  the  city,  I  suppose.  Well  you're  a  smart 
girl.  And  your  mother's  daughter.  I  guess  you'll 
get  along  all  right.    What  house  are  you  going  with?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  waiting  for  the  right  chance. 
It's  all  in  starting  right.    I'm  not  going  to  hurry." 

He  put  down  his   cases  again,  and  his  eyes  grew 
keen  and  kindly.    He  gesticulated  with  one  broad  fore- 
finger.    "Listen,  m'  girl.     I'm  what  they  call  an  old- 
timer.      They   want   these   high-power,   eight-cylinder 
kids  on  the  road  these  days,  and  it's  all  we  can  do    . 
ito  keep  up.    But  I've  got  something  they  haven't  got  u 
I — yet.     I  never  read  anybody  on  the  Psychology  of 
[Business,  but  I  know  human  nature  all  the  way  from 
[Elm  Street,  Winnebago,  to  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York." 
I      "I'm  sure  you  do,"  said  Fanny  politely,  and  took  a 
I  little  step  forward,  as  though  to  end  the  conversation. 
j      *'Now  wait  a  minute.     They  say  the  way  to  learn 
is  to  make  mistakes.     If  that's  true,  I'm  at  the  head 
of  the  class.     I've  made  'em  all.     Now  get  this.     You 
start  out  and  specialize.    Specialize !    Tie  to  one  thing, 
and  make  yourself  an  expert  in  it.     But  first  be  sure 
it's  the  right  thing." 

"But  how  is  one  to  be  sure?" 

**By  squinting  up  your  eyes  so  you  can  see  ten 
years  ahead.  If  it  looks  good  to  you  at  that  distance 
• — better,  in  fact,  than  it  does  close  by — ^then  it's  right. 
I  suppose  that's  what  they  call  having  imagination.  I 
never  had  any.  That's  why  I'm  still  selling  goods 
on  the  road.  To  look  at  you  I'd  say  you  had  too 
much.  Maybe  I'm  wrong.  But  I  never  yet  saw  a 
woman  with  a  mouth  like  yours  who  was  cut  out  for 
business- — unless  it  was  your  mother — ^And  her  eyes 
were  different.     Let's  see,  what  T^as  I  saying?" 

''Specialize." 

"Oh,  yes.  And  that  reminds  me.  Bunch  of  fellows 
in  the  smoker  last  night  talking  about  Haynes-Cooper. 
Your  mother  hated  'em  like  poison,  the  way  every 


FANNY   HERSELF  115 

small-town  merchant  hates  the  mall-order  houses.  But 
I  hear  they've  got  an  infants'  wear  department  that's 
just  going  to  grass  for  lack  of  a  proper  head.  You're 
only  a  kid.  And  they  have  done  you  dirt  all  these 
years,  of  course.  But  if  you  could  sort  of  horn  in 
there — why,  say,  there's  no  limit  to  the  distance  you 
could  go.  No  limit!  With  your  brains  and  experi- 
ence." i 

That  had  been  the  beginning.  From  then  on  the 
thing  had  moved  forward  with  a  certain  inevitableness. 
There  was  something  about  the  vastness  of  the  thing 
that  appealed  to  Fanny.  Here  was  an  organization 
whose  great  arms  embraced  the  world.  Haynes-Coop- 
er,  giant  among  mail-order  houses,  was  said  to 
eat  a  small-town  merchant  every  morning  for  break- 
fast. 

"There's  a  Haynes-Cooper  catalogue  in  every  farm- 
er's kitchen,"  Molly  Brandeis  used  to  say.  "The  Bible's 
in  the  parlor,  but  they  keep  the  H.  C.  book  in  the 
room  where  they  live." 

That  she  was  about  to  affiliate  herself  with  this 
house  appealed  to  Fanny  Brandeis's  sense  of  comedy.. 
She  had  heard  her  mother  presenting  her  arguments 
to  the  stubborn  farmer  folk  who  insisted  on  ordering 
their  stove,  or  dinner  set,  or  plow,  or  kitchen  goods 
from  the  fascinating  catalogue.  "I  honestly  think ' 
it's  just  the  craving  for  excitement  that  makes  them 
do  it,"  she  often  said.  "They  want  the  thrill  they 
get  when  they  receive  a  box  from  Chicago,  and  open 
it,  and  take  off  the  wrappings,  and  dig  out  the  thing 
they  ordered  from  a  picture,  not  knowing  whether  it 
will  be  right  or  wrong."  \ 

Her  arguments  usually  left  the  farmer  unmoved. 
He  would  drive  into  town,  mail  his  painfully  written 
letter  and  order  at  the  post-office,  dispose  of  his  load 
of  apples,  or  butter,  or  cheese,  or  vegetables,  and 
drive  cheerfully  back  again,  his  empty  wagon  bump-; 


116  FANNY   HERSELF 

:  iiig  and  rattling  down  the  old  corduroy  road.  Ex- 
i  press,  breakage,  risk,  loyalty  to  his  own  region — all 
i  these  arguments  left  him  cold. 

^      In  May,  after  much  manipulation,  correspondence, 

:  two  interviews,  came  a  definite  offer  from  the  Haynes- 

j  Cooper  Company.     It  was  much  less  than  the  State 

;  Street    store   had    offered,    and   there   was    something 

tentative  about  the  whole  agreement.     Haynes-Cooper 

proffered  little  and  demanded  much,  as  is  the  way  of 

the   rich   and   mighty.      But   Fanny    remembered   the 

j  ten-year  viewpoint  that  the  weary-wise  old  traveling 

man  had  spoken  about.      She  took  their  offer.      She 

was  to  go  to  Chicago  almost  at  once,  to  begin  work 

June  first. 

'  Two  conversations  that  took  place  before  she  left 
are  perhaps  worth  recording.  One  was  with  Father 
Fitzpatrick  of  St.  Ignatius  Catholic  Church.  The 
other  with  Rabbi  Emil  Thalmann  of  Temple  Emanu-el. 
I  An  impulse  brought  her  into  Father  Fitzpatrick's 
'  study.  It  was  a  week  before  her  departure.  She  was 
tired.  There  had  been  much  last  signing  of  papers, 
nailing  of  boxes,  strapping  of  trunks.  When  things 
began  to  come  too  thick  and  fast  for  her  she  put  on 
her  hat  and  went  for  a  walk  at  the  close  of  the  May 
day.  May,  in  Wisconsin,  is  a  thing  all  fragrant,  and 
gold,  and  blue;  and  white  with  cherry  blossoms;  and 
pink  with  apple  blossoms;  and  tremulous  with  bud- 
ding  things. 

Fanny  struck  out  westward  through  the  neat  streets 
of  the  little  town,  and  found  herself  on  the  bridge  over 
the  ravine  in  which  she  had  played  when  a  little  girl 
■ — the  ravine  that  her  childish  imagination  had  peopled 
with  such  pageantry  of  redskin,  and  priests,  and  voy- 
ageurs,  and  cavaliers.  She  leaned  over  the  iron  railing 
and  looked  down.  Where  grass,  and  brook,  and  wild 
flower  had  been  there  now  oozed  great  eruptions  of  ash 
heaps,  tin  cans,  broken  bottles,  mounds  of  dirt.    Win- 


FANNY   HERSELF  117 

nebago's  growing  pains  had  begun.  Fanny  turned 
away  with  a  little  sick  feeling.  She  went  on  across 
the  bridge  past  the  Catholic  church.  Just  next 
the  church  was  the  parish  house  where  Father  Fitz- 
patrick  lived.  It  always  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
scrubbed,  inside  and  out,  with  a  scouring  brick.  Its 
windows  were  a  reproach  and  a  challenge  to  every 
housekeeper  in  Winnebago. 

Fanny  wanted  to  talk  to  somebody  about  that  ravine. 
She  was  full  of  it.  Father  Fitzpatrick's  study  over- 
looked it.  Besides,  she  wanted  to  see  him  before  she  ; 
left  Winnebago.  A  picture  came  to  her  mind  of  his 
handsome,  ruddy  face,  twinkling  with  humor  as  she 
had  last  seen  it  when  he  had  dropped  in  at  Brandeis* 
Bazaar  for  a  chat  with  her  mother.  She  turned  in  at 
the  gate  and  ran  up  the  immaculate,  gray-painted 
steps,  that  always  gleamed  as  though  still  wet  with  the 
paint  brush. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  housekeeper  of  his  comes 
out  with  a  pail  of  paint  and  does  'em  every  morning 
before  breakfast,"  Fanny  said  to  herself  as  she  rang' 
the  bell. 

Usually  it  was  that  sparse  and  spectacled  person 
herself  who  opened  the  parish  house  door,  but  to-day 
Fanny's  ring  was  answered  by  Father  Casey,  parish 
assistant.  A  sour-faced  and  suspicious  young  man. 
Father  Casey,  thick-spectacled,  and  pointed  of  nose. 
Nothing  of  the  jolly  priest  about  him.  He  was  new 
to  the  town,  but  he  recognized  Fanny  and  surveyed 
her  darkly. 

"Father  Fitzpatrick  in?     I'm  Fanny  Brandeis." 

"The  reverend  father  is  busy,"  and  the  glass  door 
began  to  close. 

"Who  is  it  ?"  boomed  a  voice  from  within.  "Who're 
you  turning  away,  Casey?" 

"A  woman,  not  a  parishioner."  The  door  was  al- 
most shut  now. 


118  FANNY   HERSELF 

Footsteps  down  the  hall.  "Good !  Let  her  in."  The 
door  opened  ever  so  reluctantly.  Father  Fitzpatrick 
loomed  up  beside  his  puny  assistant,  dwarfing  him.  He 
looked  sharply  at  the  figure  on  the  porch.  "For  the 
love  of — !  Casey,  you're  a  fool!  How  you  ever  got 
beyond  being  an  altar-boy  is  more  than  I  can  see. 
Come  in,  child.  Come  in!  The  man's  cut  out  for  a 
jailor,  not  a  priest." 

Fanny's  two  hands  were  caught  in  one  of  his  big 
ones,  and  she  was  led  down  the  hall  to  the  study.  It 
was  the  room  of  a  scholar  and  a  man,  and  the  one 
spot  in  the  house  that  defied  the  housekeeper's 
weapons  of  broom  and  duster.  A  comfortable  and 
disreputable  room,  full  of  books,  and  fishing  tackle, 
and  chairs  with  sagging  springs,  and  a  sofa  that  was 
dented  with  friendly  hollows.  Pipes  on  the  disorderly 
desk.  A  copy  of  "Mr.  Dooley"  spread  face  ddwn 
on  what  appeared  to  be  next  Sunday's  sermon,  rough- 
drafted. 

"I  just  wanted  to  talk  to  you."  Fanny  drifted  to 
the  shelves,  book-lover  that  she  was,  and  ran  a  finger 
over  a  half-dozen  titles.  "Your  assistant  was  justi- 
fied, really,  in  closing  the  door  on  me.  But  I'm  glad 
you  rescued  me."  She  came  over  to  him  and  stood 
looking  up  at  him.  He  seemed  to  loom  up  endlessly, 
though  hers  was  a  medium  height.  "I  think  I  really 
wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  that  ravine,  though  I 
came  to  say  good-by." 

"Sit  down,  child,  sit  down!"  He  creaked  into  his 
great  leather-upholstered  desk  chair,  himself.  "If  you 
had  left  without  seeing  me  I'd  have  excommunicated 
Casey.  Between  you  and  me  the  man's  mad.  His  job 
ought  to  be  duenna  to  a  Spanish  maiden,  not  assistant 
to  a  priest  with  a  leaning  toward  the  flesh." 

Now,  Father  Fitzpatrick  talked  with  a — no,  you 
couldn't  call  it  a  brogue.  It  was  nothing  so  gross  as 
that.     One  does  not  speak  of  the  flavor  of  a  rare 


FANNY   HERSELF  119 

Wine;  one  calls  attention  to  its  bouquet.  A  subtle, 
teasing,  elusive  something  that  just  tickles  the  senses 
instead  of  punching  them  in  the  ribs.  So  his  speech 
was  permeated  with  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  a  tingling  rich- 
ness that  evaded  definition.  You  will  have  to  imagine 
it.  There  shall  be  no  vain  attempt  to  set  it  down. 
Besides,  you  always  skip  dialect. 

"So  you're  going  away.    I'd  heard.     Where  to?" 

"Chicago,  Haynes-Cooper.  It's  a  wonderful  chance. 
I  don't  see  yet  how  I  got  it.  There's  only  one  other 
woman  on  their  business  staff — I  mean  working  actu- 
ally in  an  executive  way  in  the  buying  and  selling  end 
of  the  business.  Of  course  there  are  thousands  doing 
clerical  work,  and  that  kind  of  thing.  Have  you  ever 
been  through  the  plant.?     It's — it's  incredible." 

Father  Fitzpatrick  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  and  looked  at  Fanny,  his  handsome 
eyes  half  shut. 

"So  it's  going  to  be  business,  h'm.?  Well,  I  suppose 
it's  only  natural.  Your  mother  and  I  used  to  talk 
about  you  often.  I  don't  know  if  you  and  she  ever 
spoke  seriously  of  this  little  trick  of  drawing,  or  car- 
tooning, or  whatever  it  is  you  have.  She  used  to  think 
about  it.  She  said  once  to  me,  that  it  looked  to  her 
more  than  just  a  knack.  An  authentic  gift  of  carica- 
ture, she  called  it — if  it  could  only  be  developed.  But 
of  course  Theodore  took  everything.  That  worried 
her." 

"Oh,  nonsense!  That!  I  just  amuse  myself  with 
it." 

"Yes.  But  what  amuses  you  might  amuse  other 
people.  There's  all  too  few  amusing  things  in  the 
world.  Your  mother  was  a  smart  woman,  Fanny.  The 
smartest  I  ever  knew." 

"There's  no  money  in  it,  even  if  I  were  to  get  on 
with  it.  What  could  I  do  with  it.?  Who  ever  heard 
of  a  woman  cartoonist!     And  I  couldn't  illustrate. 


120  FANNY   HERSELi: 

Those  pink  cheesecloth  pictures  the  magazines  use.  I 
want  to  earn  money.     Lots  of  it.     And  now." 

She  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  look- 
ing down  the  steep  green  slope  of  the  ravine  that 
lay,  a  natural  amphitheater,  just  below. 

"Money,  h'm?"  mused  Father  Fitzpatrick.  "Well, 
it's  popular  and  handy.  And  you  look  to  me  like  the 
kind  of  girl  who'd  get  it,  once  you  started  out  for  it. 
I've  never  had  much  myself.  They  say  it  has  a  way 
of  turning  to  dust  and  ashes  in  the  mouth,  once  you 
get  a  good,  satisfying  bite  of  it.  But  that's  only  talk, 
I  suppose." 

Fanny  laughed  a  little,  still  looking  down  at  the 
ravine.  "I'm  fairly  accustomed  to  dust  and  ashes 
by  this  time.  It  won't  be  a  new  taste  to  me."  She 
whirled  around  suddenly.  "And  speaking  of  dust  and 
ashes,  isn't  this  a  shame?  A  crime.?  Why  doesn't 
somebody  stop  it?  Why  don't  you  stop  it?"  She 
pointed  to  the  desecrated  ravine  below.  Her  eyes  were 
blazing,  her  face  all  animation. 

Father  Fitzpatrick  came  over  and  stood  beside  her. 
His  face  was  sad.  "It's  a — "  He  stopped  abruptly, 
and  looked  down  into  her  glowing  face.  He  cleared 
his  throat.  "It's  a  perfectly  natural  state  of  affairs," 
he  said  smoothly.  "Winnebago's  growing.  Especially 
over  there  on  the  west  side,  since  the  new  mill  went 
up,  and  they've  extended  the  street  car  line.  They  need 
the  land  to  build  on.     It's  business.     And  money." 

"Business!  It's  a  crime!  It's  wanton!  Those  ra- 
vines are  the  most  beautiful  natural  spots  in  Wis- 
consin. Why,  they're  history,  and  romance,  and 
beauty !" 

"So  that's  the  way  you  feel  about  it?'* 

"Of  course.  Don't  you?  Can't  you  stop  it?  Peti- 
tions— " 

"Certainly  I  feel  it's  an  outrage.  But  I'm  just  a 
poor  fool  of  a  priest,  and  sentimental,  with  no  head 


FANNy;   HERSELF  121 

for  business.     Now  you're  a  business  woman,  and  dif- 
ferent." 

"I!    You're  joking." 

"Say,  listen,  m'  girl.  The  world's  made  up  of  just 
two  things:  ravines  and  dump  heaps.  And  the  dump- 
ers are  forever  edging  up,  and  squeedging  up,  and  try- 
ing to  grab  the  ravines  and  spoil  'em,  when  nobody's 
looking.  You've  made  your  choice,  and  allied  yourself 
with  the  dimnp  heaps.  What  right  have  you  to  cry 
out  against  the  desecration  of  the  ravines.'"' 

"The  right  that  every  one  has  that  loves  them." 

"Child,  you're  going  to  get  so  used  to  seeing  your 
ravines  choked  up  at  Haynes-Cooper  that  after  a  while 
you'll  prefer  'em  that  way." 

Fanny  turned  on  him  passionately.     "I  won't !    And 
if  I  do,  perhaps  it's  just   as  well.      There's   such  a 
thing  as  too  much  ravine.     What  do  you  want  me  to 
do.''    Stay  here,  and  grub  away,  and  become  a  crabbed 
old  maid  like  Irma  Klein,  thankful  to  be  taken  around 
by  the  married  crowd,  joining  the  Aid   Society  and     . 
going  to  the  card  parties  on  Sunday  nights.'*     Or  I^r^ 
could  marry  a  traveling  man,  perhaps,  or  Lee  Kohn  I 
of  the  Golden  Eagle.    I'm  just  like  any  other  ambitious  "^ 
woman  with  brains — " 

"No  you're  not.     You're  different.     And  I'll  tell   j^^ 
you  why.    You're  a  Jew."    ^^iii,  J 

"Yes,  I've  got  that  handicap.'* 

"That    isn't    a    handicap,    Fanny.      It's    an    assetA 
Outwardly   you're  like   any  other   girl  of  your  age.\ 
Inwardly  you've  been  molded  by  occupation,  training, 
religion,  history,  temperament,  race,  into  something — " 

"Ethnologists  have  proved  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  a  Jewish  race,"  she  interrupted  pertly. 

"H'm.  Maybe.  I  don't  know  what  you'd  call  it, 
then.  You  can't  take  a  people  and  persecute  them 
for  thousands  of  years,  hounding  them  from  place  to 
place,  herding  them  in  dark  and  filthy  streets,  with- 


122  FANNY   HERSELF 

out  leaving  some  sort  of  brand  on  them — a  mark  that 
differentiates.  Sometimes  it  doesn't  show  outwardly. 
But  it's  there,  inside.  You  know,  Fanny,  how  it's  al- 
ways been  said  that  no  artist  can  became  a  genius 
until  he  has  suffered.  You've  suffered,  you  Jews,  for 
centuries  and  centuries,  until  you're  all  artists — quick 
to  see  drama  because  you've  lived  in  it,  emotional,  over- 
sensitive, cringing,  or  swaggering,  high-strung,  demon- 
strative, affectionate,  generous. 

"Maybe  they're  right.  Perhaps  it  isn't  a  race.  But 
what  do  you  caU  the  thing,  then,  that  made  you  draw 
me  as  you  did  that  morning  when  you  came  to  ten 
o'clock  mass  and  did  a  caricature  of  me  in  the  pulpit. 
You  showed  up  something  that  I've  been  trying  to 
hide  for  twenty  years,  till  I'd  fooled  everybody,  includ- 
ing myself.  My  church  is  always  packed.  Nobody 
else  there  ever  saw  it.  I'll  tell  you,  Fanny,  what  I've 
always  said:  the  Irish  would  be  the  greatest  people  in 
the  world — it  it  weren't  for  the  Jews." 

They  laughed  together  at  that,  and  the  tension  was 
relieved. 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  Fanny,  and  patted  his  great 
arm,  "I'd  rather  talk  to  you  than  to  any  man  in  the 
world.'^ 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  able  to  say  that  a  year  from 
now,  dear  girl." 

And  so  they  parted.  He  took  her  to  the  door  him- 
self, and  watched  her  slim  figure  down  the  street  and 
,  across  the  ravine  bridge,  and  thought  she  walked  very 
much  like  her  mother,  shoulders  squared,  chin  high, 
hips  firm.  He  went  back  into  the  house,  after  survey- 
ing the  sunset  largely,  and  encountered  the  dour  Casey 
in  the  hall. 

"I'll  type  your  sermon  now,  sir — ^if  it^s  done." 

"It  isn't  done,  Casey.  And  you  know  it.  Oh, 
Casey," — (I  wish  your  imagination  would  supply  that 
brogue,  because  it  was   such  a  deliciously   soft  and 


FANNY   HERSELF  123 

racy  thing) — "Oh,  Casey,  Casey !  you're  a  better  priest 
than  I  am — ^but  a  poorer  man." 

Fanny  was  to  leave  Winnebago  the  following  Satur- 
day. She  had  sold  the  last  of  the  household  furniture, 
and  had  taken  a  room  at  the  Haley  House.  She  felt 
very  old  and  experienced — and  sad.  That,  she  told 
herself,  was  only  natural.  Leaving  things  to  which 
one  is  accustomed  is  always  hard.  Queerly  enough, 
it  was  her  good-by  to  Aloysius  that  most  imnerved 
her.  Aloysius  had  been  taken  on  at  Gerretson's,  and 
the  dignity  of  his  new  position  sat  heavily  upon  him. 
You  should  have  seen  his  ties.  Fanny  sought  him  out 
at  Gerretson's. 

"It's  flure-manager  of  the  basement  I  am,"  he  said, 
and  struck  an  elegant  attitude  against  the  case  of 
misses'-ready-to-wear  coats.  "And  when  you  come 
back  to  Winnebago,  Miss  Fanny, — and  the  saints  send 
it  be  soon — I'll  bet  ye'll  see  me  on  th'  first  flure,  keepin' 
a  stem  but  kindly  eye  on  the  swellest  trade  in  town 
Ev'ry  last  thing  I  know  I  learned  off  yur  poor  ma." 

"I  hope  it  will  serve  you  here,  Aloysius." 

"Sarve  me !"  He  bent  closer.  "Meanin'  no  offense, 
Miss  Fanny;  but  say,  listen:  Oncet  ye  get  a  Yiddish 
business  education  into  an  Irish  head,  and  there's  no 
limit  to  the  length  ye  can  go.  If  I  ain't  a  dry-goods 
king  be  th'  time  I'm  thirty  I  hope  a  packin'  case'U 
fall  on  me." 

The  sight  of  Aloysius  seemed  to  recall  so  vividly  all 
that  was  happy  and  all  that  was  hateful  about  Bran- 
deis'  Bazaar;  all  the  bravery  and  pluck,  and  resource- 
fulness of  the  bright-eyed  woman  he  had  admiringly 
called  his  boss,  that  Fanny  found  her  self-control  slip- 
ping. She  put  out  her  hand  rather  blindly  to  meet 
his  great  red  paw  (a  dressy  striped  cuff  seemed  to 
make  it  all  the  redder),  murmured  a  word  of  thanks 
in  return  for  his  fervent  good  wishes,  and  fled  up  the 
basement  stairs. 


124  FANNY   HERSELF, 

On  Friday  night  (she  was  to  leave  next  day)  she 
went  to  the  temple.  The  evening  service  began  at 
seven.  At  half  past  six  Fanny  had  finished  her  early 
supper.  She  would  drop  in  at  Doctor  Thalmann's 
house  and  walk  with  him  to  temple,  if  he  had  not  al- 
ready gone. 

''Neiriy  der  Herr  Rabbi  ist  nocU  hier — sure,"  the 
maid  said  in  answer  to  Fanny's  question.  The  Thal- 
mann's had  a  German  maid — one  Minna — ^who  bullied 
the  invalid  Mrs.  Thalmann,  was  famous  for  her  cookies 
with  walnuts  on  the  top,  and  who  made  life  exceed- 
ingly difficult  for  unlinguistic  callers. 

Rabbi  Thalmann  was  up  in  his  study.  Fanny  ran 
lightly  up  the  stairs. 

"Who  is  it,  Emil?  That  Minna!  Next  Monday 
her  week  is  up.     She  goes." 

"It's  I,  Mrs.  Thalmann.     Fanny  Brandeis.'^ 

*'Na,  Fanny !    Now  what  do  you  think !" 

In  the  brightly-lighted  doorway  of  his  little  study 
appeared  Rabbi  Thalmann,  on  one  foot  a  comfortable 
old  romeo,  on  the  other  a  street  shoe.  He  held  out 
both  hands.  "Only  at  supper  we  talked  about  you. 
Isn't  that  so,  Harriet.?"  He  called  into  the  darkened 
room. 

"I  came  to  say  good-by.  And  I  thought  we  might 
walk  to  temple  together.  How's  Mrs.  Thalmann  to- 
night?" 

The  little  rabbi  shook  his  head  darkly,  and  waved 
a  dismal  hand.  But  that  was  for  Fanny  alone.  What 
he  said  was:  "She's  really  splendid  to-day.  A  little 
tired,  perhaps;  but  what  is  that?" 

"Emil !"  from  the  darkened  bedroom.  "How  can  you 
say  that?  But  how!  What  I  have  suffered  to-day, 
onl}^  Torture!  And  because  I  say  nothing  I'm  not 
sick." 

"Go  in,"  said  Rabbi  Thalmann. 

So  Fanny  went  in  to  the  woman  lying,  yellow-faced. 


FANNY,   HERSELF  125 

on  the  pillows  of  the  dim  old-fashioned  bedroom  with 
its  walnut  furniture,  and  its  red  plush  mantel  drape. 
Mrs.  Thalmann  held  out  a  hand.  Fanny  took  it  in 
hers,  and  perched  herself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  She 
patted  the  dry,  devitalized  hand,  and  pressed  it  In  her 
own  strong,  electric  grip.  Mrs.  Thalmann  raised  her 
\he6Ld  from  the  pillow. 

"Tell  me,  did  she  have  her  white  apron  on?'* 
\      "White  apron?'' 

*'Minna,  the  girl." 
^      *'0h!"  Fanny's  mind  jerked  back  to  the  gingham- 
covered   figure   that   had   opened    the   door    for   her. 
"Yes,"  she  hed,  "a  white  one — ^with  crochet  around  the 
bottom.     Quite  grand." 

Mrs.  Thalmann  sank  back  on  the  pillow  with  a  satis- 
fied sigh.  "A  wonder."  She  shook  her  head.  "What 
that  girl  wastes  alone,  when  I  am  helpless  here." 

Rabbi  Thalmann  came  into  the  room,  both  feet 
booted  now,  and  placed  his  slippers  neatly,  toes  out, 
under  the  bed.  "Ach,  Harriet,  the  girl  is  all  right. 
You  imagine.  Come,  Fanny."  He  took  a  great,  fat 
watch  out  of  his  pocket.     "It  is  time  to  go."  I 

Mrs.  Thalmann  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  Fanny's 
arm.    "You  will  come  often  back  here  to  Winnebago  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  Once  a  year,  perhaps,  to  visit 
my  graves." 

The  sick  eyes  regarded  the  fresh  young  face.  "Your 
mother,  Fanny,  we  didn't  understand  her  so  well,  here 
in  Winnebago,  among  us  Jewish  ladies.  She  was  dif- 
ferent." 

Fanny's  face  hardened.  She  stood  up.  "Yes,  she 
was  different." 

"She  comes  often  into  my  mind  now,  when  I  am 
here  alone,  with  only  the  four  walls.  We  were  aher 
dwmm,  we  women — but  how  dnmim!  She  was  too  smart 
for  us,  your  mother.  Too  smart.  Und  eirw  sehr  brave 
fraur 


126  FANNY   HERSELF 

And  suddenly  Fanny,  she  who  had  resolved  to  set 
her  face  against  all  emotion,  and  all  sentiment,  found 
herself  with  her  glowing  cheek  pressed  against  the  with- 
ered one,  and  it  was  the  weak  old  hand  that  patted 
her  now.  So  she  lay  for  a  moment,  silent.  Then  she 
got  up,  straightened  her  hat,  smiled. 

"Auf  Wiedersehen"  she  said  in  her  best  German. 
**Und  gute  Besserung." 

But  the  rabbi's  wife  shook  her  head.    "Good-by." 

From  the  hall  below  Doctor  Thalmann  called  to  her. 
"Come,  child,  come!"  Then,  "Ach,  the  light  in  my 
study!  I  forgot  to  turn  it  out,  Fanny,  be  so  good, 
yes?" 

Fanny  entered  the  bright  little  room,  reached  up 
to  turn  off  the  light,  and  paused  a  moment  to  glance 
about  her.  It  was  an  ugly,  comfortable,  old-fashioned 
room  that  had  never  progressed  beyond  the  what-not 
period.  Fanny's  eye  was  caught  by  certain  framed 
pictures  on  the  walls.  They  were  photographs  of 
Rabbi  Thalmann's  confirmation  classes.  Spindling- 
legged  httle  boys  in  the  splendor  of  patent-leather  but- 
toned shoes,  stiff  white  shirts,  black  broadcloth  suits 
with  satin  lapels;  self-conscious  and  awkward  little 
girls — these  in  the  minority — in  white  dresses  and  stiff 
white  hair  bows.  In  the  center  of  each  group  sat 
the  little  rabbi,  very  proud  and  alert.  Fanny  was 
not  among  these.  She  had  never  formally  taken  the 
vows  of  her  creed.  As  she  turned  down  the  light  now, 
and  found  her  way  down  the  stairs,  she  told  herself 
that  she  was  glad  this  was  so. 

It  was  a  matter  of  only  four  blocks  to  the  temple. 
But  they  were  late,  and  so  they  hurried,  and  there 
was  little  conversation.  Fanny's  arm  was  tucked  com- 
fortably in  his.  It  felt,  somehow,  startlingly  thin,  that 
arm.  And  as  they  hurried  along  there  was  a  jerky 
feebleness  about  his  gait.  It  was  with  difficulty  that 
Fanny  restrained  herself  from  supporting  him  when 


FANNY   HERSELF  127 

they  came  to  a  rough  bit  of  walk  or  a  sudden  step. 
Something  fine  in  her  prompted  her  not  to.  But  the 
alert  mind  in  that  old  frame  sensed  what  was  going 
on  in  her  thoughts. 

"He's  getting  feeble,  the  old  rabbi,  h'm?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  I've  got  all  I  can  do  to  keep  up 
with  3^ou.     You  set  such  a  pace." 

"I  know.  I  know.  They  are  not  all  so  kind,  Fanny. 
They  are  too  prosperous,  this  congregation  of  mine. 
And  some  day,  *OfF  with  his  head!'  And  in  my  place 
there  wiU  step  a  young  man,  with  eye-glasses  instead  of 
spectacles.  They  are  tired  of  hearing  about  the 
prophets.  Texts  from  the  Bible  have  gone  out  of 
fashion.  You  think  I  do  not  see  them  giggling,  h'm.'* 
The  young  people.  And  the  whispering  in  the  choir 
loft.  And  the  buzz  when  I  get  up  from  my  chair  after 
the  second  hymn.  'Is  he  going  to  have  a  sermon.'* 
Is  he?  Sure  enough!'  Na,  he  will  make  them  sit  up, 
my  successor.  Sex  sermons !  Political  lectures.  That's 
it.  Lectures."  They  were  turning  in  at  the  temple 
now.  "The  race  is  to  the  young,  Fanny.  To  the 
young.     And  I  am  old." 

She  squeezed  the  frail  old  arm  in  hers.  "My  dear  P* 
she  said.  "My  dear!"  A  second  breaking  of  her  new 
resolutions. 

One  by  one,  two  by  two,  they  straggled  in  for  the 
Friday  evening  service,  these  placid,  prosperous  peo- 
ple, not  unkind,  but  careless,  perhaps,  in  their  pros-  . 
perity,  s^ 

"He's  worth  any  ten  of  them,"  Fanny  said  hotly 
to  herself,  as  she  sat  in  her  pew  that,  after  to-morrow, 
would  no  longer  be  hers.  "The  dear  old  thing.  'Sex 
sermons.'  And  the  race  is  to  the  young.  How  right 
he  is.  Well,  no  one  can  say  I'm  not  getting  an  early 
start." 

The  choir  had  begun  the  first  hymn  when  there  came 
down  the  aisle  a  stranger.     There  was  a  little  stir 


128  FANNY   HERSELF 

among  the  congregation.  Visitors  were  rare.  He  was 
dark  and  very  slim — with  the  slimness  of  steel  wire. 
He  passed  down  the  aisle  rather  uncertainly.  A  travel- 
ing man,  Fanny  thought,  dropped  in,  as  sometimes 
they  did,  to  say  Kaddish  for  a  departed  father  or 
mother.  Then  she  changed  her  mind.  Her  quick  eye 
noted  his  walk;  a  peculiar  walk,  with  a  spring  in  it. 
Only  one  unfamiliar  with  cement  pavements  could  walk 
like  that.  The  Indians  must  have  had  that  same  light, 
muscular  step.  He  chose  an  empty  pew  halfway  down 
the  aisle  and  stumbled  into  it  rather  awkwardly.  Fanny 
thought  he  was  unnecessarily  ugly,  even  for  a  man. 
Then  he  looked  up,  and  nodded  and  smiled  at  Lee  Kohn, 
across  the  aisle.  His  t^eth  were  very  white,  and  the 
smile  was  singularly  sweet.  Fanny  changed  her  mind 
again.  Not  so  bad-looking,  after  all.  Different,  any- 
way. And  then — why,  of  course!  Little  Clarence 
Heyl,  come  back  from  the  West.  Clarence  Heyl,  the 
cowardy-cat. 

Her  mind  went  back  to  that  day  of  the  street  fight. 
She  smiled.  At  that  moment  Clarence  Heyl,  who 
had  been  screwing  about  most  shockingly,  as  though 
searching  for  some  one,  turned  and  met  her  smile,  in- 
tended for  no  one,  with  a  startlingly  radiant  one  of 
his  own,  intended  most  plainly  for  her.  He  half 
started  forward  in  his  pew,  and  then  remembered,  and 
sat  back  again,  but  with  an  effect  of  impermanence 
that  was  ludicrous.  It  had  been  years  since  he  had 
left  Winnebago.  At  the  time  of  his  mother's  death 
they  had  tried  to  reach  him,  and  had  been  unable  to 
get  in  touch  with  him  for  weeks.  He  had  been  off 
on  some  mountain  expedition,  hundreds  of  miles  from 
railroad  or  telegraph.  Fanny  remembered  having  read 
about  him  in  the  Winnebago  Courier,  He  seemed  to 
be  climbing  mountains  a  great  deal — rather  difficult 
mountains,  evidently,  from  the  fuss  they  made  over  it. 
A  queer  enough  occupation  for  a  cowardy-cat.    There 


FANNY   HERSELF  129 

had  been  a  book,  too.  About  the  Rockies.  She  had 
not  read  it.  She  rather  disliked  these  nature  books, 
as  do  most  nature  lovers.  She  told  herself  that  when 
she  came  upon  a  flaming  golden  maple  in  October  she 
was  content  to  know  it  was  a  maple,  and  to  warm  her 
soul  at  its  blaze. 

There  had  been  something  in  the  Chicago  Herald, 
though — oh,  yes ;  it  had  spoken  of  him  as  the  brilliant 
young  naturalist,  Clarence  Heyl.  He  was  to  have 
gone  on  an  expedition  with  Roosevelt.  A  sprained 
ankle,  or  some  such  thing,  had  prevented.  Fanny 
smiled  again,  to  herself.  His  mother,  the  fussy  per- 
son who  had  been  responsible  for  his  boyhood  reefers 
and  too-shiny  shoes,  and  his  cowardice  too,  no  doubt, 
had  dreamed  of  seeing  her  Clarence  a  rabbi. 

From  that  point  Fanny's  thoughts  wandered  to  the 
brave  old  man  in  the  pulpit.  She  had  heard  almost 
nothing  of  the  service.  She  looked  at  him  now — at 
him,  and  then  at  his  congregation,  inattentive  and 
palpably  bored.  As  always  with  her,  the  thing  stamped 
itself  on  her  mind  as  a  picture.  She  was  forever  see- 
ing a  situation  in  terms  of  its  human  value.  How 
small  he  looked,  how  frail,  against  the  background  of 
the  massive  Ark  with  its  red  velvet  curtain.  And  how 
bravely  he  glared  over  his  blue  glasses  at  the  two 
Aarons  girls  who  were  whispering  and  giggling  to- 
gether, eyes  on  the  newcomer. 

So  this  was  what  life  did  to  you,  was  it.'*  Squeezed 
you  dry,  and  then  cast  you  aside  in  your  old  age,  a 
pulp,  a  bit  of  discard.  Well,  they'd  never  catch  her 
that  way. 

Unchurchly  thoughts,  these.  The  little  place  was 
very  peaceful  and  quiet,  lulling  one  like  a  narcotic. 
The  rabbi's  voice  had  in  it  that  soothing  monotony 
bred  of  years  in  the  pulpit.  Fanny  found  her  thoughts 
straying  back  to  the  busy,  bright  little  store  on  Elm 
Street,  then  forward,  to  the  Haynes-Cooper  plant  and 


130  FANNY   HERSELF 

the  fight  that  was  before  her.  There  settled  about  her 
mouth  a  certain  grim  line  that  sat  strangely  on  so 
young  a  face.  The  service  marched  on.  There  came 
the  organ  prelude  that  announced  the  mourners' 
prayer.  Then  Rabbi  Thalmann  began  to  intone  the 
Kaddish.  Fanny  rose,  prayer  book  in  hand.  At  that 
Clarence  Heyl  rose  too,  hurriedly,  as  one  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  service,  and  stood  with  unbpwed  head, 
looking  at  the  rabbi  interestedly,  thoughtfully,  rev- 
erently. The  two  stood  alone.  Death  had  been  kind 
to  Congregation  Emanu-el  this  year.  The  prayer 
ended.  Fanny  winked  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  al- 
most wrathfully.  She  sat  down,  and  there  swept  over 
her  a  feeling  of  finality.  It  was  like  the  closing  of 
Book  One  in  a  volume  made  up  of  three  parts. 

She  said  to  herself:  "Winnebago  is  ended,  and  my 
life  here.  How  interesting  that  I  should  know  that, 
and  feel  it«  It  is  like  the  first  movement  in  one  of  the 
concertos  Theodore  was  forever  playing.  Now  for  the 
second  movement!  It's  got  to  be  lively.  Fortissimo! 
Presto!" 

For  so  clever  a  girl  as  Fanny  Brandeis,  that  was  a 
stupid  conclusion  at  which  to  arrive.  How  could  she 
think  it  possible  to  shed  her  past  life,  like  a  garment? 
Those  impressionable  years,  between  fourteen  and 
twenty-four,  could  never  be  cast  off.  She  might  don 
a  new  cloak  to  cover  the  old  dress  beneath,  but  the 
old  would  always  be  there,  its  folds  peeping  out  here 
and  there,  its  outlines  plainly  to  be  seen.  She  might 
eat  of  things  rare,  and  drink  of  things  costly,  but  the 
sturdy,  stocky  little  girl  in  the  made-over  silk  dress, 
who  had  resisted  the  Devil  in  Weinberg's  pantry  on 
that  long-ago  Day  of  Atonement,  would  always  be  there 
at  the  feast.  Myself,  I  confess  I  am  tired  of  these 
stories  of  young  women  who  go  to  the  big  city,  there 
to  do  battle  with  failure,  to  grapple  with  temptation, 
sin  and  discouragement.      So  it  may   as  well  be  ad- 


FANNY   HERSELF  131 

mitted  that  Fanny  Brandeis'  story  was  not  that  of 
a  painful  hand-over-hand  cHmb.  She  was  made  for 
success.  What  she  attempted,  she  accomphshed.  That 
which  she  strove  for,  she  won.  She  was  too  sure,  too 
vital,  too  electric,  for  failure.  No,  Fanny  Brandeis' 
struggle  went  on  inside.  And  in  trying  to  stifle  it  she 
came  near  making  the  blackest  failure  that  a  woman 
can  make.  In  grubbing  for  the  pot  of  gold  she  almost 
missed  the  rainbow. 

Rabbi  Thalmann  raised  his  arms  for  the  benedic- 
tion. Fanny  looked  straight  up  at  him  as  though 
stamping  a  picture  on  her  mind.  His  eyes  were  rest- 
ing gently  on  her — or  perhaps  she  just  fancied  that 
he  spoke  to  her  alone  as  he  began  the  words  of  the 
ancient  closing  prayer: 

*'May  the  blessings  of  the  Lord  Our  God  rest  upon 
you.  God  bless  thee  and  keep  thee.  May  He  cause 
His  countenance  to  shine  upon  thee  and  be  gracious 
unto  thee.  May  God  lift  up  His  countenance  unto 
thee  ..." 

At  the  last  word  she  hurried  up  the  aisle,  and  down 
the  stairs,  into  the  soft  beauty  of  the  May  night.  She 
felt  she  could  stand  no  good-bys.  In  her  hotel  room 
she  busied  herself  with  the  half-packed  trunks  and 
bags.  So  it  was  she  altogether  failed  to  see  the  dark 
young  man  who  hurried  after  her  eagerly,  and  who 
was  stopped  by  a  dozen  welcoming  hands  there  in  the 
temple  vestibule.  He  swore  a  deep  inward  "Damn!" 
as  he  saw  her  straight,  slim  figure  disappear  down  the 
steps  and  around  the  comer,  even  while  he  found  him- 
self saying,  politely,  "Why,  thanks!  It's  good  to  he 
back."  And,  "Yes,  things  have  changed.  All  but  the 
temple,  and  Rabbi  Thalmann." 

Fanny  left  Winnebago  at  eight  next  morning. 


CHAPTER  NINE 

MR.  FENGER  will  see  you  now."  Mr.  Fenger, 
general  manager,  had  been  a  long  time  about  it. 
This  heel-cooling  experience  was  new  to  Fanny  Bran- 
deis.  It  had  always  been  her  privilege  to  keep  others 
waiting.  Still,  she  felt  no  resentment  as  she  sat  in 
Michael  Fenger's  outer  office.  For  as  she  sat  there, 
waiting,  she  was  getting  a  distinct  impression  of  this 
unseen  man  whose  voice  she  could  just  hear  as  he 
talked  over  the  telephone  in  his  inner  office.  It  was 
characteristic  of  Michael  Fenger  that  his  personality 
reached  out  and  touched  you  before  you  came  into 
actual  contact  with  the  man.  Fanny  had  heard  of 
him  long  before  she  came  to  Haynes-Cooper.  He  was 
the  genie  of  that  glittering  lamp.  All  through  the 
gigantic  plant  ( she  had  already  met  department  heads, 
buyers,  merchandise  managers)  one  heard  his  name, 
and  felt  the  impress  of  his  mind: 

"You'll  have  to  see  Mr.  Fenger  about  that." 
**Yes," — pointing   to    a   new    conveyor,    perhaps, — 
"that  has  just  been  installed.     It's  a  great  help  to  us. 
Doubles  our  shipping-room  efficiency.     We  used  to  use 
baskets,  pulled  by  a  rope.     It's  Mr.  Fenger's  idea." 

Efficiency,  efficiency,  efficiency.  Fenger  had  made 
it  a  slogan  in  the  Haynes-Cooper  plant  long  before 
the  German  nation  forced  it  into  our  everyday  vo- 
cabulary. Michael  Fenger  was  System.  He  could 
take  a  muddle  of  orders,  a  jungle  of  unfilled  contracts, 
a  horde  of  incompetent  workers,  and  of  them  make  a 
smooth-running  and  effective  unit.  Untangling  snarls 
was  his  pastime.     Esprit  de  corps  was  his  shibboleth. 

132 


fanny;  herself        133 

Order  and  management  his  idols.     And  his  war-cry 
was  "Results!" 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  Fanny  came  into  his 
out^r  office.  The  very  atmosphere  was  vibrant  with 
his  personality.  There  hung  about  the  place  an  air 
of  repressed  expectancy.  The  room  was  electrically 
charged  with  the  high-voltage  of  the  man  in  the  inner 
office.  His  secretary  was  a  spare,  middle-aged,  anx- 
ious-looking woman  in  snuff-brown  and  spectacles ;  his 
stenographer  a  blond  young  man,  also  spectacled 
and  anxious;  his  office  boy  a  stem  youth  in  knickers, 
who  bore  no  relation  to  the  slangy,  gum-chewing,  red- 
headed office  boy  of  the  comic  sections. 

The  low-pitched,  high-powered  voice  went  on  inside, 
talking  over  the  long-distance  telephone.  Fenger  was 
the  kind  of  man  who  is  always  talking  to  New  York 
when  he  is  in  Chicago,  and  to  Chicago  when  he  is  in 
New  York.  Trains  with  the  word  Limited  after  them 
were  invented  for  him  and  his  type.  A  buzzer  sounded. 
It  galvanized  the  office  boy  into  instant  action.  It 
brought  the  anxious-looking  stenographer  to  the  door- 
way, notebook  in  hand,  ready.  It  sent  the  lean  secre- 
tary out,  and  up  to  Fanny. 

"Temper,"  said  Fanny,  to  herself,  "or  horribly 
nervous  and  high-keyed.  They  jump  like  a  set  of  pup- 
pets on  a  string." 

It  was  then  that  the  lean  secretary  had  said,  "Mr. 
Fenger  wiU  see  you  now." 

Fanny  was  aware  of  a  pleasant  little  tingle  of  ex- 
citement.    She  entered  the  inner  office. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Michael  Fenger  that  he  em- 
ployed no  cheap  tricks.  He  was  not  writing  as  Fanny 
Brandeis  came  in.  He  was  not  telephoning.  He  was 
not  doing  anything  but  standing  at  his  desk,  waiting 
for  Fanny  Brandeis.  As  she  came  in  he  looked  at  her, 
through  her,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  her  mental  processes 
laid  open  to  him  as  a  skilled  surgeon  cuts  through 


134  FANNY   HERSELF 

skin  and  flesh  and  fat,  to  lay  bare  the  muscles  and 
nerves  and  vital  organs  beneath.  He  put  out  his  hand. 
Fanny  extended  hers.  They  met  in  a  silent  grip.  It 
was  like  a  meeting  between  two  men.  ^^  Even  as  he  in- 
dexed her,  Fanny's  alert  mind  was  busy  docketing, 
numbering,  cataloguing  him.  They  had  in  common 
a  certain  force,  a  driving  power.  Fanny  seated  her- 
self opposite  him,  in  obedience  to  a  gesture.  He  crossed 
his  legs  comfortably  and  sat  back  in  his  big  desk 
chair.  A  great-bodied  man,  with  powerful  square 
shoulders,  a  long  head,  a  rugged  crest  of  a  nose — 
the  kind  you  see  on  the  type  of  Englishman  who  has 
the  imagination  and  initiative  to  go  to  Canada,  or 
Australia,  or  America.  He  wore  spectacles,  not  the 
fashionable  horn-rimmed  sort,  but  the  kind  with  gold 
ear  pieces.  They  were  becoming,  and  gave  a  certain 
humanness  to  a  face  that  otherwise  would  have 
been  too  rugged,  too  strong.  A  man  of  forty-five,  per- 
haps. 

He  spoke  first.     "You're  younger  than  I  thought." 

"So  are  you.'* 

"Old  inside." 

"So  am  I." 

He  uncrossed  his  legs,  leaned  forward,  folded  his 
arms  on  the  desk. 

"You've  been  through  the  plant.  Miss  Brandeis.?" 

"Yes.  Twice.  Once  with  a  regular  tourist  party* 
And  once  with  the  special  guide." 

"Good.  Go  through  the  plant  whenever  you  can. 
Don't  stick  to  your  own  department.  It  narrows  one." 
He  paused  a  moment.  "Did  you  think  that  this  op^ 
portunity  to  come  to  Haynes-Cooper,  as  assistant  to 
the  infants'  wear  department  buyer  was  just  a  piece 
of  luck,  augmented  by  a  little  pulling  on  your  part.''" 

"Yes." 

"It  wasn't.  You  were  carefully  picked  by  me,  and 
I  don't  expect  to  find  I've  made  a  mistake.     I  svip^ 


fanny;  herself        135 

pose  you  know  very  little  about  buying  and  selling 
infants'  wear?" 

"Less  than  about  almost  any  other  article  in  the 
world — at  least,  in  the  department  store,  or  mail  order 
world." 

"I  thought  so.  And  it  doesn't  matter.  I  pretty 
well  know  your  history,  which  means  that  I  know 
your  training.  You're  young;  you're  ambitious; 
you're  experienced;  you're  imaginative.  There's  no 
length  you  can't  go,  with  these.  It  just  depends  on 
how  farsighted  your  mental  vision  is.  Now  listen, 
Miss  Brandeis:  I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you  in  mil- 
lions. The  guides  do  enough  of  that.  But  you  know 
we  do  buy  and  sell  in  terms  of  millions,  don't  youi* 
Well,  our  infants'  wear  department  isn't  helping  to 
roll  up  the  millions ;  and  it  ought  to,  because  there  are 
millions  of  babies  born  every  year,  and  the  golden- 
spoon  kind  are  in  the  minority.  I've  decided  that  that 
department  needs  a  woman,  your  kind  of  woman.  Now, 
as  a  rule,  I  never  employ  a  woman  when  I  can  use  a 
man.  There's  only  one  other  woman  filling  a  really 
important  position  in  the  merchandise  end  of  this 
business.  That's  Ella  Monahan,  head  of  the  glove 
department,  and  she's  a  genius.  She  is  a  woman  who 
is  limited  in  every  other  respect — ^just  average;  but 
she  knows  glove  materials  in  a  way  that's  uncanny. 
I'd  rather  have  a  man  in  her  place ;  but  I  don't  happen 
to  know  any  men  glove-geniuses.  Tell  me,  what  do 
you  think  of  that  etching?" 

Fanny  tried — and  successfully — not  to  show  the  jolt 
her  mind  had  received  as  she  turned  to  look  at  the 
picture  to  which  his  finger  pointed.  She  got  up  and 
strolled  over  to  it,  and  she  was  glad  her  suit  fitted 
and  hung  as  it  did  in  the  back. 

"I  don't  like  it  particularly.  I  like  it  less  than  any 
other  etching  you  have  here.'*  The  walls  were  hung 
with  them.     **0f  course  jou  understand  I  know  noth- 


136  FANNY   HERSELF 

ing  about  them.  But  it's  too  flowery,  isn't  it,  to  be 
good?  Too  many  lines.  Like  a  writer  who  spoils 
his  effect  by  using  too  many  words." 

Fenger  came  over  and  stood  beside  her,  staring  at  / 
the  black  and  white  and  gray  thing  in  its  frame.     "I 
felt  that  way,  too."     He  stared  down  at  her,  then. 
"Jew?"  he  asked.  ; 

A  breathless  instant.     "No,"  said  Fanny  Brandeis. 

Michael  Fenger  smiled  for  the  first  time.  Fanny 
Brandeis  would  have  given  everything  she  had,  every- 
thing she  hoped  to  be,  to  be  able  to  take  back  that 
monosyllable.  She  was  gripped  with  horror  at  what 
she  had  done.  She  had  spoken  almost  mechanically. 
And  yet  that  monosyllable  must  have  been  the  fruit  of 
all  these  months  of  inward  struggle  and  thought.  "Now 
I  begin  to  understand  you,"  Fenger  went  on.  "You've 
decided  to  lop  off  all  the  excrescences,  eh?  Well,  I 
can't  say  that  I  blame  you.  A  woman  in  business  is 
handicapped  enough  by  the  very  fact  of  her  sex."  He 
stared  at  her  again.    "Too  bad  you're  so  pretty." 

"I'm  not!"  said  Fanny  hotly,  like  a  school-girl. 

"That's  a  thing  that  can't  be  argued,  child.     Beau- . 
ty's  subjective,  you  know.' 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  it  makes,  anyway." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do."  He  stopped.  "Or  perhaps  you 
don't,  after  all.  I  forget  how  young  you  are.  Well, 
now.  Miss  Brandeis,  you  and  your  woman's  mind, 
and  your  masculine  business  experience  and  sense  are 
to  be  turned  loose  on  our  infants'  wear  department. 
The  buyer,  Mr.  Slosson,  is  going  to  resent  you.  Nat- 
urally. I  don't  know  whether  we'll  get  results  from 
you  in  a  month,  or  six  months  or  a  year.  Or  ever. 
But  something  tells  me  we're  going  to  get  them.  You've 
lived  in  a  small  town  most  of  your  life.  And  we  want 
that  small-town  viewpoint.  D'you  think  you've  got 
it?" 

Fanny  was  on  her  own  ground  here.     "If  knowing 


FANNY   HERSELF  137 

the  Wisconsin  small-town  woman,  and  the  Wisconsin 
farmer  woman — and  man  too,  for  that  matter — means 
knowing  the  Oregon,  and  Wyoming,  and  Pennsylvania, 
and  Iowa  people  of  the  same  class,  then  I've  got  it." 

"Good!"     Michael  Fenger  stood  up.     "I'm  not  go- 
ing to  load  you  down  with  instructions,  or  advice.     I 
think  I'll  let  you  grope  your  own  way  around,  and 
bump  your  head  a  few  times.     Then  you'll  learn  where 
the  low  places   are.     And,  Miss   Brandeis,   remember 
that  suggestions  are  welcome  in  this  plant.     We  take 
suggestions  all  the  way  from  the  elevator  starter  to 
the  president."     His  tone  was  kindly,  but  not  hopeful- 
Fanny  was  standing  too,  her  mental  eye  on  the  door. 
But  now  she  turned  to  face  him  squarely. 
"Do  you  mean  that.''" 
"Absolutely." 

'^Vell,  then,  I've  one  to  make.  Your  stock  boys 
and  stock  girls  walk  miles  and  miles  every  day,  on 
every  floor  of  this  fifteen-story  building.  I  watched 
them  yesterday,  filling  up  the  bins,  carrying  orders^ 
covering  those  enormous  distances  from  one  bin  to  an* 
other,  up  one  aisle  and  down  the  next,  to  the  office,, 
back  again.  Your  floors  are  concrete,  or  cement,  or 
some  such  mixture,  aren't  they.?  I  just  happened  to 
think  of  the  boy  who  used  to  deliver  our  paper  on 
N  orris  Street,  in  Winnebago,  Wisconsin.  He  covered 
his  route  on  roller  skates.  It  saved  him  an  hour.  Why 
don't  you  put  roller  skates  on  your  stock  boys  and 
girls?" 

Fenger  stared  at  her.  You  could  almost  hear  that 
mind  of  his  working,  like  a  thing  on  ball  bearings. 
"Roller  skates."  It  wasn't  an  exclamation.  It  was 
a  decision.  He  pressed  a  buzzer — the  snuff -brown  sec- 
retary buzzer.  "Tell  Clancy  I  want  him.  Now."  He 
had  not  glanced  up,  or  taken  his  eyes  from  Fanny. 
She  was  aware  of  feeling  a  little  uncomfortable,  but 
elated,  too.    She  moved  toward  the  door.    Fenger  stood 


138  FANNY   HERSELF 

^t  his  desk.  "Walt  a  minute."  Fanny  waited.  Still 
Fenger  did  not  speak.  Finally,  "I  suppose  you  know 
you've  earned  six  months'  salary  in  the  last  five  min- 
utes." 

Fanny  eyed  him  coolly.  "Considering  the  number 
of  your  stock  force,  the  time,  energy,  and  labor  saved, 
including  wear  and  tear  on  department  heads  and  their 
assistants,  I  should  say  that  was  a  conservative  state- 
ment."    And  she  nodded  pleasantly,  and  left  him. 

Two  days  later  every  stock  clerk  in  the  vast  plant 
was  equipped  with  light-weight  roller  skates.  They 
made  a  sort  of  carnival  of  it  at  first.  There  were  some 
spills,  too,  going  around  comers,  and  a  little  too 
much  hilarity.  That  wore  off  in  a  week.  In  two  weeks 
their  roller  skates  were  part  of  them;  just  shop  labor- 
savers.  The  report  presented  to  Fenger  was  this: 
Time  and  energy  saved,  fifty-five  per  cent;  stock  staff 
decreased  by  one  third.  The  picturesqueness  of  it, 
the  almost  ludicrous  simplicity  of  the  idea  appealed 
to  the  entire  plant.  It  tickled  the  humor  sense  in 
every  one  of  the  ten  thousand  employees  in  that  vast 
organization.  In  the  first  week  of  her  association  with 
Haynes-Cooper  Fanny  Brandeis  was  actually  more 
widely  known  than  men  who  had  worked  there  for 
years.  The  president,  Nathan  Haynes  himself,  sent 
for  her,  chuckling. 

Nathan  Haynes — ^but  then,  why  stop  for  him? 
Nathan  Haynes  had  been  swallowed,  long  ago,  by  this 
monster  plant  that  he  himself  had  innocently  created. 
You  must  have  visited  it,  this  Gargantuan  thing  that 
sprawls  its  length  in  the  very  center  of  Chicago,  the 
giant  son  of  a  surprised  father.  It  is  one  of  the  city's 
show  places,  like  the  stockyards,  the  Art  Institute, 
and  Field's.  Fifteen  years  before,  a  building  had  been 
erected  to  accommodate  a  prosperous  mail  order  busi- 
ness. It  had  been  built  large  and  roomy,  with  plenty 
of  seams,  planned  amply,  it  was  thought,  to  allow  the 


FANNY   HERSELF  139 

boy  to  grow.  It  would  do  for  twenty-five  years,  surely. 
In  ten  years  Haynes-Cooper  was  bursting  its  seams. 
In  twelve  it  was  shamelessly  naked,  its  arms  and  legs 
sticking  out  of  its  inadequate  garments.  New  red 
brick  buildings — another — another.  Five  stories  added 
to  this  one,  six  stories  to  that,  a  new  fifteen  story 
merchandise  building. 

The  firm  began  to  talk  in  tens  of  millions.  Its  stock 
became  gilt-edged,  unattainable.  Lucky  ones  who  had 
bought  of  it  diffidently,  discreetly,  with  modest  visions 
of  four  and  a  half  per  cent  in  their  unimaginative 
minds,  saw  their  dividends  doubling,  trebling,  quad- 
rupling, finally  soaring  gymnastically  beyond  all  rea- 
son. Listen  to  the  old  guide  who  (at  fifteen  a  week) 
takes  groups  of  awed  visitors  through  the  great  plant. 
How  he  juggles  figures;  how  grandly  they  roll  off  his 
tongue.  How  glib  he  is  with  Nathan  Haynes's  mil- 
lions. 

"This,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  our  mail  department. 
From  two  thousand  to  twenty-five  hundred  pounds  of 
mail,  comprising  over  one  hundred  thousand  letters, 
are  received  here  every  day.  Yes,  madam,  I  said  every 
day.  About  half  of  these  letters  are  orders.  Last 
year  the  banking  department  counted  one  hundred  and 
thirty  millions  of  dollars.  One  hundred  and  thirty 
millions !"  He  stands  there  in  his  ill-fitting  coat,  and 
his  star,  and  rubs  one  bony  hand  over  the  other. 

"Dear  me!"  says  a  lady  tourist  from  Idaho,  rather 
inadequately.  And  yet,  not  so  inadequately.  What 
exclamation  is  there,  please,  that  fits  a  sum  like  one 
hundred  and  thirty  millions  of  anything? 

Fanny  Brandeis,  fresh  from  Winnebago,  Wisconsin, 
sKpped  into  the  great  scheme  of  things  at  the  Haynes- 
Cooper  plant  like  part  of  a  perfectly  planned  blue 
print.  It  was  as  though  she  had  been  thought  out 
and  shaped  for  this  particular  comer.  And  the  reason 
for   it  was,  primarily,  Winnebago,  Wisconsin.     For 


140  FANNY   HERSELF 

Haynes-Cooper  grew  and  thrived  on  just  such  towns, 
with  their  surrounding  farms  and  villages.  Haynes- 
Cooper  had  their  fingers  on  the  pulse  and  heart  of 
the  country  as  did  no  other  industry.  They  were 
close,  close.  When  rugs  began  to  take  the  place  of 
ingrain  carpets  it  was  Haynes-Cooper  who  first  sensed 
Ithe  change.  Oh,  they  had  had  them  in  New  York  years 
before,  certainly.  But  after  all,  it  isn't  New  York's 
artistic  progress  that  shows  the  development  of  this 
nation.  It  is  the  thing  they  are  thinking,  and  doing, 
j  and  learning  in  Backwash,  Nebraska,  that  marks  time 
'  for  these  United  States.  There  may  be  a  certain  sig- 
nificance in  *  the  announcement  that  New  York  has 
dropped  the  Russian  craze  and  has  gone  in  for  that 
quaint  Chinese  stuff.  My  dear,  it  makes  the  loveliest 
hangings  and  decorations.  When  Fifth  Avenue  takes 
down  its  filet  lace  and  eyelet  embroidered  curtains, 
and  substitutes  severe  shantung  and  chaste  net,  there 
is  little  in  the  act  to  revolutionize  industry,  or  stir 
the  art-world.  But  when  the  Haynes-Cooper  com- 
pany, by  referring  to  its  inventory  ledgers,  learns  that 
it  is  selling  more  Alma  Gluck  than  Harry  Lauder 
records ;  when  its  statistics  show  that  Tchaikowsky  is 
going  better  than  Irving  Berlin,  something  epochal  is 
happening  in  the  musical  progress  of  a  nation.  And 
when  the  orders  from  Noose  Gulch,  Nevada,  are  for 
those  plain  dimity  curtains  instead  of  the  cheap  and 
.  gaudy  Nottingham  atrocities,  there  is  conveyed  to 
Ithe  mind  a  fact  of  immense,  of  overwhelming  signifi- 
cance. The  country  has  taken  a  step  toward  civiliza- 
tion and  good  taste. 

So.  You  have  a  skeleton  sketch  of  Haynes-Cooper, 
whose  feelers  reach  the  remotest  dugout  in  the  Yukon, 
the  most  isolated  cabin  in  the  Rockies,  the  loneliest 
ranch-house  in  Wyoming;  the  Montana  mining  shack, 
the  bleak  Maine  farm,  the  plantation  in  Virginia. 
And  the  man  who  had  so  innocently  put  life  into 


FANNY   HERSELF  141 

this  monster?  A  plumpish,  kindly-faced  man;  a  be- 
wildered, gentle,  unimaginative  and  somewhat  fright- 
ened man,  fresh-cheeked,  eye-glassed.  In  his  suite  of 
offices  in  the  new  Administration  Building — built  two 
years  ago — marble  and  oak  throughout — twelve  stories, 
and  we're  adding  three  already;  offices  all  two-toned 
rugs,  and  leather  upholstery,  with  dim,  rich,  brown- 
toned  Dutch  masterpieces  on  the  walls,  he  sat  help- 
less and  defenseless  while  the  torrent  of  millions  rushed, 
and  swirled,  and  foamed  about  him.  I  think  he  had 
fancied,  fifteen  years  ago,  that  he  would  some  day  be 
a  fairly  prosperous  man;  not  rich,  6ls  riches  are 
counted  nowadays,  but  with  a  comfortable  number  of 
tens  of  thousands  tucked  away.  Two  or  three  hun- 
dred thousand;  perhaps  five  hundred  thousand! — per- 
haps a — but,  nonsense!     Nonsense! 

And  then  the  thing  had  started.  It  was  as  when 
a  man  idly  throws  a  pebble  into  a  chasm,  or  shoves 
a  bit  of  ice  with  the  toe  of  his  boot,  and  starts  a 
snow-slide  that  grows  as.it  goes.  He  had  started  this 
avalanche  of  money,  and  now  it  rushed  on  of  its  own 
momentum,  plunging,  rolling,  leaping,  crashing,  and 
as  it  swept  on  it  gathered  rocks,  trees,  stones,  houses, 
everything  that  lay  in  its  way.  It  was  beyond  the 
power  of  human  hand  to  stop  this  tumbling,  roaring 
slide.  In  the  midst  of  it  sat  Nathan  Haynes,  deafened, 
stunned,  terrified  at  the  immensity  of  what  he  had 
done.  i 

He  began  giving  away  huge  sums,  incredible  sums. 
^It  piled  up  faster  than  he  could  give  it  away.  And 
so  he  sat  there  in  the  office  hung  with  the  dim  old  mas- 
terpieces, and  tried  to  keep  simple,  tried  to  keep  sane, 
with  that  austerity  that  only  mad  wealth  can  afford — 
or  bitter  poverty.  He  caused  the  land  about  the  plant 
to  be  laid  out  in  sunken  gardens  and  baseball  fields 
and  tennis  courts,  so  that  one  approached  this  monster 
of  commerce  through  enchanted  grounds,  glowing  with 


142  FANNY   HERSELF 

tulips  and  heady  hyacinths  in  spring,  with  roses  in 
June,  blazing  with  salvia  and  golden-glow  and  asters 
in  autumn.  There  was  something  apologetic  about 
these  grounds. 

This,  then,  was  the  environment  that  Fanny  Bran- 
deis  had  chosen.  On  the  face  of  things  you  would 
have  said  she  had  chosen  well.  The  inspiration  of  the 
roller  skates  had  not  been  merely  a  lucky  flash.  That, 
idea  had  been  part  of  the  consistent  whole.  Her 
mind  was  her  mother's  mind  raised  to  the  nih  power, 
and  enhanced  by  the  genius  she  was  trying  to  crush. 
Refusing  to  die,  it  found  expression  in  a  hundred  bril- 
liant plans,  of  which  the  roller  skate  idea  was  only 
one. 

Fanny  had  reached  Chicago  on  Sunday.  She  had 
entered  the  city  as  a  queen  enters  her  domain,  authori- 
tatively, with  no  fear  upon  her,  no  trepidation,  no 
doubts.  She  had  gone  at  once  to  the  Mendota  Hotel, 
on  Michigan  Avenue,  up-town,  away  from  the  roar  of 
the  loop.  It  was  a  residential  hotel,  very  quiet,  de- 
cidedly luxurious.  She  had  no  idea  of  making  it  her 
home.  But  she  would  stay  there  until  she  could  find 
an  apartment  that  was  small,  bright,  near  the  lake, 
and  yet  within  fairly  reasonable  transportation  fa- 
cilities for  her  work.  Her  room  was  on  the  ninth 
floor,  not  on  the  Michigan  Avenue  side,  but  east,  over- 
looking the  lake.  She  spent  hours  at  the  windows, 
fascinated  by  the  stone  and  steel  city  that  lay  just 
below  with  the  incredible  blue  of  the  sail-dotted  lake 
beyond,  and  at  night,  with  the  lights  spangling  the- 
velvety  blackness,  the  flaring  blaze  of  Thirty-first 
Street's  chop-suey  restaurants  and  moving  picture 
houses  at  the  right;  and  far,  far  away,  the  red  and 
white  eye  of  the  lighthouse  winking,  blinking,  winking, 
blinking,  the  rumble  and  clank  of  a  flat-wheeled  Indi- 
ana avenue  car,  the  sound  of  high  laughter  and  a  snatch 
of  song  that  came  faintly  up  to  her  from  the  speed- 
ing car  of  some  midnight  joy-riders! 


FANNY   HERSELF  143 

But  all  this  had  to  do  with  her  other  side.  It  had 
no  bearing  on  Haynes-Cooper,  and  business.  Busi- 
ness! That  was  it.  She  had  trained  herself  for  it, 
like  an  athlete.  Eight  hours  of  sleep.  A  cold  plunge 
on  arising.  Sane  food.  Long  walks.  There  was 
something  terrible  about  her  earnestness. 

On  Monday  she  presented  herself  at  the  Haynes- 
Cooper  plant.  Monday  and  Tuesday  were  spent  in 
going  over  the  great  works.  It  was  an  exhausting 
process,  but  fascinating  beyond  belief.  It  was  on 
Wednesday  that  she  had  been  summoned  for  the  talk 
with  Michael  Fenger.  Thursday  morning  she  was  at 
her  desk  at  eight-thirty.  It  was  an  obscure  desk, 
in  a  dingy  corner  of  the  infants'  wear  department,  the 
black  sheep  section  of  the  great  plant.  Her  very 
presence  in  that  comer  seemed  to  change  it  magically. 
You  must  remember  how  young  she  was,  how  healthy, 
how  vigorous,  with  the  freshness  of  the  small  town 
still  upon  her.  It  was  health  and  youth,  and  vigor 
that  gave  that  gloss  to  her  hair  (conscientious  brush- 
ing too,  perhaps),  that  color  to  her  cheeks  and  lips, 
that  brightness  to  her  eyes.  But  crafty  art  and  her 
dramatic  instinct  were  responsible  for  the  tailored 
severity  of  her  costume,  for  the  whiteness  of  her  blouse, 
the  trim  common-sense  expensiveness  of  her  shoes  and 
hat  and  gloves. 

Slosson,  buyer  and  head  of  the  department,  came 
in  at  nine.  Fanny  rose  to  greet  him.  She  felt  a  little 
sorry  for  Slosson.  In  her  mind  she  already  knew  him 
for  a  doomed  man. 

"Well,  well !" — he  was  the  kind  of  person  who  would 
say,  well,  well! — "You're  bright  and  early,  Miss — 
ah—" 

"Brandeis." 

"Yes,  certainly ;  Miss  Brandeis.  Well,  nothing  like 
making  a  good  start." 

"I  wanted  to  go  through  the  department  by  my* 


144  FANNY   HERSELF 

self,"  said  Fanny.  "The  shelves  and  bins,  and  the 
numbering  system.  I  see  that  your  new  maternity 
dresses  have  just  come  in." 

"Oh,  yes.     How  do  you  like  them?" 

"I  think  they're  unnecessarily  hideous,  Mr.  Slos- 
son." 

"My  dear  young  lady,  a  plain  garment  is  what  they 
want.     Unnoticeable." 

"Unnoticeable,  yes;  but  becoming.  At  such  a  time 
a  woman  is  at  her  worst.  If  she  can  get  it,  she  at 
least  wants  a  dress  that  doesn't  add  to  her  unattrac- 
tiveness." 

"Let  me  see — ^you  are  not — ah — married,  I  believe, 
Miss  Brandeis?" 

'^     "No."  ^ 

'  "I  am.  Three  children.  All  girls."  He  passed  a 
nervous  hand  over  his  head,  rumpling  his  hair  a  little. 
"An  expensive  proposition,  let  me  tell  you,  three  girls. 
But  there's  very  little  I  don't  know  about  babies,  as 
you  may  imagine." 

But  there  settled  over  Fanny  Brandeis'  face  the 
mask  of  hardness  that  was  so  often  to  transform  it. 
I  The  morning  mail  was  in — the  day's  biggest  grist,  a 
deluge  of  it,  a  flood.  Buyer  and  assistant  buyer  never 
saw  the  actual  letters,  or  attended  to  their  enclosed 
orders.  It  was  only  the  unusual  letter,  the  complaint 
or  protest  that  reached  their  desk.  Hundreds  of  hands 
downstairs  sorted,  stamped,  indexed,  filed,  after  the 
letter-opening  machines  had  slit  the  envelopes.  Those 
letter-openers !  Fanny  had  hung  over  them,  enthralled. 
The  unopened  envelopes  were  fed  into  them.  Flip! 
Zip!  Flip!  Out!  Opened!  Faster  than  eye  could  fol- 
low. It  was  uncanny.  It  was,  somehow,  humorous, 
like  the  clever  antics  of  a  trained  dog.  You  could 
not  believe  that  this  little  machine  actually  performed 
what  your  eyes  beheld.  Two  years  later  they  installed 
the  sand-paper  letter-opener,  marvel  of  simplicity.     It 


fanny;  herself.        us 

made  the  old  machine  seem  cumbersome  and  slow. 
Guided  by  Izzy,  the  expert,  its  rough  tongue  was  ca- 
pable of  licking  open  six  hundred  and  fifty  letters  a 
minute. 

Ten  minutes  after  the  mail  came  in  the  orders  were 
being  filled;  bins,  shelves,  warehouses,  were  emptying 
their  contents.  Up  and  down  the  aisles  went  the  stock 
clerks;  into  the  conveyors  went  the  bundles,  down  the 
great  spiral  bundle  chute,  into  the  shipping  room,  out 
by  mail,  by  express,  by  freight.  This  leghorn  hat  for 
a  Nebraska  country  belle ;  a  tombstone  for  a  rancher's 
wife ;  a  plow,  brave  in  its  red  paint ;  coffee,  tea,  tinned 
fruit,  bound  for  Alaska;  lace,  muslin,  sheeting,  towel- 
ing, all  intended  for  the  coarse  trousseau  of  a  Georgia 
bride. 

It  was  not  remarkable  that  Fanny  Brandeis  fitted 
into  this  scheme  of  things.  For  years  she  had  min- 
istered to  the  wants  of  just  this  type  of  person.  The 
letters  she  saw  at  Haynes-Cooper's  read  exactly  as 
customers  had  worded  their  wants  at  Brandeis'  Bazaar. 
The  magnitude  of  the  thing  thrilled  her,  the  endless 
possibilities  of  her  own  position. 

During  the  first  two  months  of  her  work  there  she 
was  as  unaggressive  as  possible.  She  opened  the  very 
pores  of  her  mind  and  absorbed  every  detail  of  her  de- 
partment. But  she  said  little,  followed  Slosson's  in- 
structions in  her  position  as  assistant  buyer,  and  sug- 
gested no  changes.  Slosson's  wrinkle  of  anxiety 
smoothed  itself  away,  and  his  manner  became  pat- 
ronizingly authoritative  again.  Fanny  seemed  to  have 
become  part  of  the  routine  of  the  place.  Fenger  did 
not  send  for  her.  June  and  July  were  insufferably 
hot.  Fanny  seemed  to  thrive,  to  expand  like  a  flower 
in  the  heat,  when  others  wilted  and  shriveled.  The 
spring  catalogue  was  to  be  made  up  in  October,  as 
always,  six  months  in  advance.  The  first  week  in 
August  Fanny  asked  for  an  interview;  with  Fenger, 


^^     146  FANNY   HERSELF 

Slosson  was  to  be  there.  At  ten  o'clock  she  entered 
^:^  Fenger's  inner  office.  He  was  telephoning — something 
J.  about  dinner  at  the  Union  League  Club.  His  voice  was 
(^  suave,  his  tone  well  modulated,  his  accent  correct,  his 

^  ^  English  faultless.  And  yet  Fanny  Brandeis,  studying 
^^  the  etchings  on  his  wall,  her  back  turned  to  him,  smiled 
to  herself.  The  voice,  the  tone,  the  accent,  the  Eng- 
,  lish,  did  not  ring  true.  They  were  acquired  graces, 
^  I  exquisite  imitations  of  the  real  thing.  Fanny  Bran- 
deis knew.  She  was  playing  the  same  game  herself. 
She  understood  this  man  now,  after  two  months  in 
the  Haynes-Cooper  plant.  These  marvelous  exam- 
ples of  the  etcher's  art,  for  example.  They  were  the 
struggle  for  expression  of  a  man  whose  youth  had 
been  bare  of  such  things.  His  love  for  them  was 
much  the  same  as  that  which  impels  the  new  made 
millionaire  to  buy  rare  pictures,  rich  hangings,  tapes- 
tries, rugs,  not  so  much  in  the  desire  to  impress  the 
world  with  his  wealth  as  to  satisfy  the  craving  for 
beauty,  the  longing  to  possess  that  which  is  exquisite, 
and  fine,  and  almost  unobtainable.  You  have  seen  how 
a  woman,  long  denied  luxuries,  feeds  her  starved  senses 
on  soft  silken  things,  on  laces  and  gleaming  jewels, 
for  pure  sensuous  delight  in  their  feel  and  look. 

Thus  Fanny  mused  as  she  eyed  these  treasures — 
grim,  deft,  repressed  things,  done  with  that  economy 
of  line  which  is  the  test  of  the  etcher's  art. 

Fenger  hung  up  the  receiver. 

"So  it's  taken  you  two  months.  Miss  Brandeis.  I 
was  awfully  afraid,  from  the  start  you  made,  that 
you'd  be  back  here  in  a  week,  bursting  with  ideas." 

Fanny  smiled,  appreciatively.  He  had  come  very 
near  the  truth.  "I  had  to  use  all  my  self-control,  that 
first  week.    After  that  it  wasn't  so  hard." 

Fenger's  eyes  narrowed  upon  her.  "Pretty  sure  of 
yourself,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,"   said  Fanny.      She   came  over  to  his  desk. 


FANNY   HERSELF  147 

**I  wish  we  needn't  have  Mr.  Slosson  here  this  morn- 
ing. After  all,  he's  been  here  for  years,  and  I'm  prac- 
tically an  upstart.  He's  so  much  older,  too.  I — I 
hate  to  hurt  him.     I  wish  you'd — " 

But  Fenger  shook  his  head.  "Slosson's  due  now. 
And  he  has  got  to  take  his  medicine.  This  is  business, 
Miss  Brandeis.  You  ought  to  know  what  that  means. 
For  that  matter,  it  may  be  that  you  haven't  hit  upon 
an  idea.  In  that  case,  Slosson  would  have  the  laugh, 
wouldn't  he?" 

Slosson  entered  at  that  moment.  And  there  was 
a  chip  on  his  shoulder.  It  was  evident  in  the  way  he 
bristled,  in  the  way  he  seated  himself.  His  fingers 
drummed  his  knees.  He  was  like  a  testy,  hum-ha  stage 
father  dealing  with  a  willful  child. 

Fenger  took  out  his  watch. 

"Now,  Miss  Brandeis." 

Fanny  took  a  chair  facing  the  two  men,  and  crossed 
her  trim  blue  serge  knees,  and  folded  her  hands  in 
her  lap.  A  deep  pink  glowed  in  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes 
were  very  bright.  All  the  Molly  Brandeis  in  her  was 
at  the  surface,  sparkling  there.  And  she  looked  al- 
most insultingly  youthful. 

"You — you  want  me  to  talk.?" 

"We  want  you  to  talk.  We  have  time  for  just 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  of  uninterrupted  conversa- 
tion. If  you've  got  anything  to  say  you  ought  to 
say  it  in  that  time.  Now,  Miss  Brandeis,  what's  the 
trouble  with  the  Haynes-Cooper  infants'  wear  depart- 
ment.?" 

And  Fanny  Brandeis  took  a  long  breath. 

*'The  trouble  with  the  Haynes-Cooper  infants'  wear 
department  is  that  it  doesn't  understand  women.  There 
are  millions  of  babies  born  every  year.  An  incredible 
number  of  them  are  mail  order  babies.  I  mean  by 
that  they  are  born  to  tired,  clumsy-fingered  immigrant 
women,  to  women  in  mills  and  factories,  to  women  OB 


148  FANNY   HERSELF 

farms,  to  women  in  remote  villages.  They're  the  type 
who  use  the  mail  order  method.  I've  learned  this  one 
thing  about  that  sort  of  woman:  she  may  not  want 
that  baby,  but  either  before  or  after  it's  bom  she'll 
starve,  and  save,  and  go  without  proper  clothing,  and 
even  beg,  and  steal  to  give  it  clothes — clothes  with  lace 
on  them,  with  ribbon  on  them,  sheer  white  things.  I 
don't  know  why  that's  true,  but  it  is.  Well,  we're  not 
reaching  them.  Our  goods  are  unattractive.  They're 
packed  and  shipped  unattractively.  Why,  all  this  de- 
partment needs  is  a  little  psychology — and  some  lace 
that  doesn't  look  as  if  it  had  been  chopped  out  with 
an  ax.  It's  the  little,  silly,  intimate  things  that  will 
reach  these  women.  No,  not  silly,  either.  Quite  un- 
derstandable. She  wants  fine  things  for  her  baby, 
just  as  the  silver-spoon  mother  does.  The  thing  we'll 
have  to  do  is  to  give  her  silver-spoon  models  at  pewter 
prices." 

"It  can't  be  done,"  said  Slosson. 

"Now,  wait  a  minute,  Slosson,"  Fenger  put  in, 
smoothly.  "Miss  Brandeis  has  given  us  a  very  fair 
general  statement.  We'll  have  some  facts.  Are  you 
prepared  to  give  us  an  actual  working  plan?" 

"Yes.  At  least,  it  sounds  practical  to  me.  And  if 
it  does  to  you — and  to  Mr.  Slosson — " 

"Humph!"  snorted  that  gentleman,  in  expression  of 
defiance,  unbelief,  and  a  determination  not  to  be  im- 
pressed. 

It  acted  as  a  goad  to  Fanny.  She  leaned  forward 
in  her  chair  and  talked  straight  at  the  big,  potent 
force  that  sat  regarding  her  in  silent  attention. 

"I  still  say  that  we  can  copy  the  high-priced  models 
in  low-priced  materials  because,  in  almost  every  case, 
it  isn't  the  material  that  makes  the  expensive  model; 
it's  the  line,  the  cut,  the  little  trick  that  gives  it  style. 
We  can  get  that.  We've  been  giving  them  stuff*  that 
might  have  been  made  by  prison  labor,  for  ail  the  dis- 


'Now^  Miss  Brandeis,  what's  the  trouble  with  the  Haynes- 
Cooper  infants'  wear   department?'  " 

—Page  lJi.7 


c    c      c    c 


•  «   ••«  c 


FANNY   HERSELF  149 

tmction  it  had.  Then  I  think  we  ought  to  make  a 
feature  of  the  sanitary  methods  used  in  our  infants' 
department.  Every  article  intended  for  a  baby's  use 
should  be  wrapped  or  boxed  as  it  lies  in  the  bin  or  on 
the  shelf.  And  those  bins  ought  to  be  glassed.  We 
would  advertise  that,  and  it  would  advertise  itself.  Our 
visitors  would  talk  about  it.  This  department  hasn't 
been  getting  a  square  deal  in  the  catalogue.  Not 
enough  space.  It  ought  to  have  not  only  more  cata- 
logue space,  but  a  catalogue  all  its  own — the  Baby 
Book.  Full  of  pictures.  Good  ones.  Illustrations 
that  will  make  every  mother  think  her  baby  will  look 
like  that  baby,  once  it  is  wearing  our  No.  29E798 — 
chubby  babies,  curly-headed,  and  dimply.  And  the 
feature  of  that  catalogue  ought  to  be,  not  separate 
garments,  but  complete  outfits.  Outfits  boxed,  ready 
for  shipping,  and  ranging  in  price  all  the  way  from 
twenty-five  dollars  to  three-ninety-eight — " 

'It  can't  be  done!"  yelled  Slosson.  '*Three-ninety- 
eight!    Outfits!" 

"It  can  be  done,  I've  figured  it  out,  down  to  a 
packet  of  assorted  size  safety  pins.  We'll  call  it  our 
emergency  outfit.  Thirty  pieces.  And  while  we're 
about  it,  every  outfit  over  five  dollars  ought  to  be 
packed  in  a  pink  or  a  pale  blue  pasteboard  box.  The 
outfits  trimmed  in  pink,  pink  boxes ;  the  outfits  trimmed 
in  blue,  blue  boxes.  In  eight  cases  out  of  ten  their 
letters  wiU  tell  us  whether  it's  a  pink  or  blue  baby. 
And  when  they  get  our  package,  and  take  out  that  pink 
or  blue  box,  they'll  be  as  pleased  as  if  we'd  made  them 
a  present.     It's  the  personal  note — " 

"Personal  slop!"  growled  Slosson.  "It  isn't  busi- 
ness.    It's  sentimental  slush!" 

"Sentimental,  yes,"  agreed  Fanny  pleasantly,  "but 
then,  we're  running  the  only  sentimental  department 
in  this  business.  And  we  ought  to  be  doing  it  at  the 
rate  of  a  million  and  a  quarter  a  year.     If  you  think 


150  FANNY   HERSELF 

these  last  suggestions  sentimental,  I'm  afraid  the  next 
one—" 

"Let's  have  it,  Miss  Brandeis,"  Fenger  encouraged 
her  quietly. 

"It's" — she  flashed  a  mischievous  smile  at  Slosson 
— "it's  a  mother's  guide  and  helper,  and  adviser.  A 
woman  who'll  answer  questions,  give  advice.  Some  one 
they'll  write  to,  with  a  picture  in  their  minds  of  a 
large,  comfortable,  motherly-looking  person  in  gray. 
You  know  we  get  hundreds  of  letters  asking  whether 
they  ought  to  order  flannel  bands,  or  the  double-knitted 
kind.  That  sort  of  thing.  And  who's  been  answering 
them?  Some  sixteen-year-old  girl  in  the  mailing  de- 
partment who  doesn't  know  a  flannel  band  from  a 
bootee  when  she  sees  it.  We  could  call  our  woman 
something  pleasant  and  everydayish,  like  Emily  Brand. 
Easy  to  remember.  And  until  we  can  find  her,  I'D. 
answer  those  letters  myself.  They're  important  to  us 
as  well  as  to  the  woman  who  writes  them.  And  now, 
there's  the  matter  of  obstetrical  outfits.  Three  grades, 
packed  ready  for  shipment,  practical,  simple,  and  com- 
plete. Our  drug  section  has  the  separate  articles,  but 
we  ought  to — " 

"Oh,  lord!"  groaned  Slosson,  and  slumped  disgust- 
edly in  his  seat. 

But  Fenger  got  up,  came  over  to  Fanny,  and  put 
a  hand  on  her  shoulder  for  a  moment.  He  looked  down 
at  her.  "I  knew  you'd  do  it."  He  smiled  queerly. 
"Tell  me,  where  did  you  learn  all  this?" 

"I  don't  know,"  faltered  Fanny  happily.  "Bran- 
deis'  Bazaar,  perhaps.  It's  just  another  case  of  plush 
photograph  album." 

"Plush—?" 

Fanny  told  him  that  story.  Even  the  discomfited 
Slosson  grinned  at  it. 

But  after  ten  minutes  more  of  general  discussion 
Slosson  left.    Fenger,  without  putting  it  in  words,  had 


FANNY   HERSELF  151 

conveyed  that  to  him.  Fanny  stayed.  They  did  things 
that  way  at  Haynes-Cooper.  No  waste.  No  delay. 
That  she  had  accomplished  in  two  months  that  which 
ordinarily  takes  years  was  not  surprising.  They  did 
things  that  way,  too,  at  Haynes-Cooper.  Take  the 
case  of  Nathan  Haynes  himself.  And  Michael  Fen- 
ger  too  who,  not  so  many  years  before,  had  been  a 
machine-boy  in  a  Racine  woolen  mill. 

For  my  part,  I  confess  that  Fanny  Brandeis  begins 
to  lose  interest  for  me.  Big  Business  seems  to  dwarf 
the  finer  things  in  her.  That  red-cheeked,  shabby 
little  schoolgirl,  absorbed  in  Zola  and  peanut  brittle 
in  the  Winnebago  library,  was  infinitely  more  appealing 
than  this  glib  and  capable  young  woman.  The  spit- 
ting wildcat  of  the  street  fight  so  long  ago  was  gentler 
by  far  than  this  cool  person  who  was  so  deliberately 
taking  his  job  away  from  Slosson.  You,  too,  feel  that 
way  about  her?  That  is  as  it  should  be.  It  is  the 
penalty  they  pay  who,  given  genius,  sympathy,  and 
understanding  as  their  birthright,  trade  them  for  the 
tawdry  trinkets  money  brings. 

Perhaps  the  last  five  minutes  of  that  conference  be- 
tween Fanny  and  Michael  Fenger  reveals  a  new  side, 
and  presents  something  of  interest.  It  was  a  harrow- 
ing and  unexpected  five  minutes. 

You  may  remember  how  Michael  Fenger  had  a  way 
of  looking  at  one,  silently.  It  was  an  intent  and  con- 
centrated gaze  that  had  the  effect  of  an  actual  phys- 
ical hold.  Most  people  squirmed  under  it.  Fanny, 
feeling  it  on  her  now,  frowned  and  rose  to  leave. 

**Shall  you  want  to  talk  these  things  over  again? 
Of  course  I've  only  outlined  them,  roughly.  You  gave 
me  so  little  time." 

Fenger,  at  his  desk,  did  not  answer,  or  turn  away 
his  gaze.  A  little  blaze  of  wrath  flamed  into  Fanny's 
face. 

"General  manager  or  not,"  she  said,  very  low-voiced. 


152  FANNY   HERSELF 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  sit  and  glower  at  me  like  that. 
It's  rude,  and  it's  disconcerting,"  which  was  putting 
it  forthrightly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  Fenger  came  swiftly  around 
the  desk,  and  over  to  her.  "I  was  thinking  very  hard. 
Miss  Brandeis,  will  you  dine  with  me  somewhere  to- 
night? Then  to-morrow  night?  But  I  want  to  talk 
to  you." 

"Here  I  am.     Talk." 

"But  I  want  to  talk  to — ^you." 

It  was  then  that  Fanny  Brandeis  saved  an  ugly 
situation.  For  she  laughed,  a  big,  wholesome,  outdoors 
sort  of  laugh.     She  was  honestly  amused. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Fenger,  you've  been  reading  the 
murky  magazines.     Very  bad  for  you." 

Fenger  was  unsmiling:  "Why  won't  you  dine  with 
me?" 

"Because  it  would  be  unconventionfeil  and  foolish. 
I  respect  the  conventions.  They're  so  sensible.  And 
because  it  would  be  unfair  to  you,  and  to  Mrs.  Fenger, 
and  to  me." 

"Rot !  It's  you  who  have  the  murky  magazine  view- 
point, as  you  call  it,  when  you  imply — " 

"Now,  look  here,  Mr.  Fenger,"  Fanny  interrupted, 
quietly.  "Let's  be  square  with  each  other,  even  if 
we're  not  being  square  with  ourselves.  You're  the  real 
power  in  this  plant,  because  you've  the  brains.  You 
can  make  any  person  in  this  organization,  or  brealk' 
them.  That  sounds  melodramatic,  but  it's  true.  I've 
got  a  definite  life  plan,  and  it's  as  complete  and  de- 
tailed as  an  engineering  blue  print.  I  don't  intend  to 
let  you  spoil  it.  I've  made  a  real  start  here.  If  you 
want  to,  I've  no  doubt  you  can  end  it.  But  before 
you  do,  I  want  to  warn  you  that  I'll  make  a  pretty 
stiiF  fight  for  it.  I'm  no  silent  sufferer.  I'll  say  things. 
And  people  usually  believe  me  when  I  talk." 

Still  the  silent,  concentrated  gaze.    With  a  little  im- 


FANNY   HERSELF  153 

patient  exclamation  Fanny  walked  toward  the  door. 
Fenger,  startlingly  light  and  agile  for  his  great  height, 
followed. 

"I'm  sorry,  Miss  Brandeis,  terribly  sorry.  You 
see,  you  interest  me  very  much.     Very  much." 

"Thanks,"  dryly. 

*'Don't  go  just  yet.  Please.  Fm  not  a  villain. 
Really.  That  is,  not  a  deliberate  villain.  But  when 
I  find  something  very  fine,  very  intricate,  very  fascinat- 
ing and  complex — like  those  etchings,  for  example — I 
am  intrigued.    I  want  it  near  me.    I  want  to  study  it." 

Fanny  said  nothing.  But  she  thought,  "This  is  a 
dangerously  clever  man.  Too  clever  for  you.  You 
know  so  little  about  them." 

Fenger  waited.  Most  women  would  have  found 
refuge  in  words.  The  wrong  words.  It  is  only  the 
strong  who  can  be  silent  when  in  doubt. 

"Perhaps  you  will  dine  with  Mrs.  Fenger  and  me 
at  our  home  some  evening.'*  Mrs.  Fenger  will  speak 
to  you  about  it." 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  usually  too  tired  for  further  effort 
at  the  end  of  the  day.    I'm  sorry " 

"Some  Sunday  night  perhaps,  then.    Tea." 

"Thank  you."  And  so  out,  past  the  spare  secre- 
tary, the  anxious-browed  stenographer,  the  academic 
office  boy,  to  the  hallway,  the  elevator,  and  finally  the 
refuge  of  her  own  orderly  desk.  Slosson  was  at  lunch  in 
one  of  the  huge  restaurants  provided  for  employees  in 
the  building  across  the  street.  She  sat  there,  very  still, 
for  some  minutes ;  for  more  minutes  than  she  knew.  Her 
hands  were  clasped  tightly  on  the  desk,  and  her  eyes 
stared  ahead  in  a  puzzled,  resentful,  bewildered  way. 
Something  inside  her  was  saying  over  and  over  again: 

"You  lied  to  him  on  that  very  first  day.  That  placed 
you.  That  stamped  you.  Now  he  thinks  you're  rotten 
all  the  way  through.     You  lied  on  the  very  first  day." 

Ella  Monahan  poked  her  head  in  at  the  door.    The 


154*  FANNY   HERSELF 

Gloves  were  on  that  floor,  at  the  far  end.  The  two 
women  rarely  saw  each  other,  except  at  lunch  time. 

"Missed  you  at  lunch,"  said  Ella  Monahan.  She 
was  a  pink-cheeked,  bright-eyed  woman  of  forty-one 
or  two,  prematurely  gray  and  therefore  excessively 
young  in  her  manner,  as  women  often  are  who  have 
grown  gray  before  their  time. 

Fanny  stood  up,  hurriedly.  "I  was  just  about  to 
go." 

"Try  the  grape  pie,  dear.  It's  delicious."  And 
strolled  off  down  the  aisle  that  seemed  to  stretch  end- 
lessly ahead. 

Fanny  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after  her,  as 
though  meaning  to  call  her  back.  But  she  must  have 
changed  her  mind,  because  she  said,  *'0h,  nonsense!" 
aloud.  And  went  across  to  lunch.  And  ordered  grape 
pie.    And  enjoyed  it. 


CHAPTER  TEN 

THE  invitation  to  tea  came  in  due  time  from  Mrs. 
Fenger.  A  thin,  querulous  voice  over  the  tele- 
phone prepared  one  for  the  thin,  querulous  Mrs. 
Fenger  herself.  A  sallow,  plaintive  woman,  with  a 
misbehaving  valve.  The  valve,  she  confided  to  Fanny, 
made  any  effort  dangerous.  Also  it  made  her  suscep- 
tible to  draughts.  She  wore  over  her  shoulders  a  scarf 
that  was  constantly  slipping  and  constantly  being  re- 
trieved by  Michael  Fenger.  The  sight  of  this  man,  a 
physical  and  mental  giant,  performing  this  task  ever 
so  gently  and  patiently,  sent  a  little  pang  of  pity 
through  Fanny,  as  Michael  Fenger  knew  it  would. 
The  Fenger s  lived  in  an  apartment  on  the  Lake  Shore 
Drive — an  apartment  such  as  only  Chicago  boasts.  A 
view  straight  across  the  lake,  rooms  huge  and  many- 
windowed,  a  glass-enclosed  sun-porch  gay  with  chintz 
and  wicker,  an  incredible  number  of  bathrooms.  The 
guests,  besides  Fanny,  included  a  young  pair,  newly 
married  and  interested  solely  in  rents,  hangings,  linen 
closets,  and  the  superiority  of  the  Florentine  over  the 
Jacobean  for  dining  room  purposes;  and  a  very 
scrubbed  looking,  handsome,  spectacled  man  of  thirty- 
'two  or  three  who  was  a  mechanical  engineer.  Fanny 
failed  to  catch  his  name,  though  she  learned  it  later. 
Privately,  she  dubbed  him  Fascinating  Facts,  and  he 
always  remained  that.  His  conversation  was  invariably 
prefaced  with,  "Funny  thing  happened  down  at  the 
works  to-day."  The  rest  of  it  sounded  like  something 
one  reads  at  the  foot  of  each  page  of  a  loose-leaf  desk 
calendar^ 

155 


156  FANNY   HERSELF      ' 

At  tea  there  was  a  great  deal  of  silver,  and  lace,  but 
Fanny  thought  she  could  have  improved  on  the  chicken 
a  la  king.  It  lacked  paprika  and  personality.  Mrs. 
Fenger  was  constantly  directing  one  or  the  other  of  the 
neat  maids  in  an  irritating  aside. 

After  tea  Michael  Fenger  showed  Fanny  his  pictures, 
not  boastfully,  but  as  one  who  loves  them  reveals  his 
treasures  to  an  appreciative  friend.  He  showed  her  his 
library,  too,  and  it  was  the  library  of  a  reader.  Fanny 
nibbled  at  it,  hungrily.  She  pulled  out  a  book  here,  a 
book  there,  read  a  paragraph,  skimmed  a  page.  There 
was  no  attempt  at  classification.  Lever  rubbed  elbows 
with  Spinoza ;  Mark  Twain  dug  a  facetious  thumb  into 
Haeckel's  ribs.  Fanny  wanted  to  sit  down  on  the  floor, 
legs  crossed,  before  the  open  shelves,  and  read,  and 
read,  and  read.  Fenger,  watching  the  light  in  her  face, 
seemed  himself  to  take  on  a  certain  glow,  as  people  gen- 
erally did  who  found  this  girl  in  sympathy  with  them. 

They  were  deep  in  book  talk  when  Fascinating  Facts 
strolled  in,  looking  aggrieved,  and  spoiled  it  with  the 
thoroughness  of  one  who  never  reads,  and  is  not 
ashamed  of  it. 

"My  word,  I'm  having  a  rotten  time,  Fenger,"  he 
said,  plaintively.  "They've  got  a  tape-measure  out  of 
your  wife's  sewing  basket,  those  two  in  there,  and 
they're  down  on  their  hands  and  knees,  measuring  some- 
thing. It  has  to  do  with  their  rug,  over  your  rug,  or 
some  such  rot.  And  then  you  take  Miss  Brandeis  and 
go  off  into  the  library." 

"Then  stay  here,"  said  Fanny,  "and  talk  books." 

"My  book's  a  blue-print,"  admitted  Fascinating 
Facts,  cheerfully.  "I  never  get  time  to  read.  There's 
enough  fiction,  and  romance,  and  adventure  in  my  job 
to  give  me  all  the  thrill  I  want.  Why,  just  last  Tues- 
day— no,  Thursday  it  was — down  at  the  works " 

Between  Fanny  and  Fenger  there  flashed  a  look  made 
up  of  dismay,  and  amusement,  and  secret  sympathy. 


FANNY   HERSELF  157 

It  was  a  look  that  said,  "We  both  see  the  humor  of 
this.  Most  people  wouldn't.  Our  angle  is  the  same." 
Such  a  glance  jumps  the  gap  between  acquaintance 
and  friendship  that  whole  days  of  spoken  conversation 
cannot  cover. 

"Cigar?"  asked  Fenger,  hoping  to  stay  the  flood. 
,      "No,  thanks.     Say,  Fenger,  would  there  be  a  row  if 
\  I  smoked  my  pipe  ?" 

"That  black  one.?    With  the  smell.?" 

"The  black  one,  yes." 

"There  would."  Fenger  glanced  in  toward  his  wife, 
and  smiled,  dryly. 

Fascinating  Facts  took  his  hand  out  of  his  pocket, 
regretfully. 

"Wouldn't  it  sour  a  fellow  on  marriage!  Wouldn't 
it!  First  those  two  in  there,  with  their  damned  linen 
closets,  and  their  rugs — I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Bran- 
deis!  And  now  your  missus  objects  to  my  pipe.  You 
wouldn't  treat  me  like  that,  would  you.  Miss  Brandeis .?" 

There  was  about  him  something  that  appealed — 
something  boyish  and  likeable. 

"No,  I  wouldn't.  I'd  let  you  smoke  a  nargileh,  if  you 
wanted  to,  surrounded  by  rolls  of  blue  prints." 

"I  knew  it.     I'm  going  to  drive  you  home  for  that." 

And  he  did,  in  his  trim  little  roadster.  It  is  a  fairy 
road  at  night,  that  lake  drive  between  the  north  and 
south  sides.  Even  the  Rush  street  bridge  cannot  quite 
spoil  it.  Fanny  sat  back  luxuriously  and  let  the  soft 
splendor  of  the  late  August  night  enfold  her.  She 
was  intelligently  monosyllabic,  while  Fascinating  Facts 
talked.  At  the  door  of  her  apartment  house  (she  had 
left  the  Mendota  weeks  before)  Fascinating  Facts  sur- 
prised her. 

"1[ — I'd  like  to  see  you  again,  Miss  Brandeis.  If 
you'll  let  me." 

"I'm  so  busy,"  faltered  Fanny.  Then  it  came  to 
her  that  perhaps  he  did  not  know.    "I'm  with  Haynea- 


158  FANNY   HERSELF 

Cooper,  you  know.     Assistant  buyer  in  the  infants' 
wear  department." 

*'Yes,  I  know.  I  suppose  a  girl  like  you  couldn't  be 
interested  in  seeing  a  chap  like  me  again,  but  I  thought 
maj^be " 

"But  I  would,"  interrupted  Fanny,  impulsively.  "In- 
deed I  would." 

"Really!  Perhaps  you'll  drive,  some  evening.  Over 
to  the  Bismarck  Gardens,  or  somewhere.  It  would  rest 
you." 

"I'm  sure  it  would.     Suppose  you  telephone  me." 

That  was  her  honest,  forthright,  Winnebago  Wis- 
consin self  talking.  But  up  in  her  apartment  the  other 
Fanny  Brandeis,  the  calculating,  ambitious,  deter- 
mined woman,  said:  "Now  why  did  I  say  that!  I 
never  want  to  see  the  boy  again. 

"Use  him.  Experiment  with  him.  Evidently  men 
are  going  to  enter  into  this  thing.  Michael  Fenger 
has,  already.  And  now  this  boy.  Why  not  try  certain 
tests  with  them  as  we  used  to  follow  certain  formulae 
in  the  chemistry  laboratory  at  high  school.'^  This  com- 
pound, that  compound,  what  reaction?  Then,  when  the 
time  comes  to  apply  your  knowledge,  you'll  know." 

Which  shows  how  ignorant  she  was  of  this  danger-' 
ous  phase  of  her  experiment.  If  she  had  not  been,  she 
must  have  known  that  these  were  not  chemicals,  but 
explosives  with  which  she  proposed  to  play. 

The  trouble  was  that  Fanny  Brandeis,  the  creative, 
was  not  being  fed.  And  the  creative  fire  requires  fueL 
Fanny  Brandeis  fed  on  people,  not  things.  And  her 
work  at  Haynes-Cooper  was  all  with  inanimate  ob- 
jects. The  three  months  since  her  coming  to  Chicago 
had  been  crowded  and  eventful.  Haynes-Cooper 
claimed  every  ounce  of  her  energy,  every  atom  of  her 
wit  and  resourcefulness.  In  return  it  gave — salary. 
Not  too  much  salary.  That  would  come  later,  perhaps. 
Unfortunately,  Fanny  Brandeis  did  not  thrive  on  that 


FANNY   HERSELF  159 

kind  of  fare.  She  needed  people.  She  craved  con- 
tact. All  these  millions  whom  she  served — these  unseen, 
unheard  men  and  women,  and  children — she  wanted  to 
see  them.  She  wanted  to  touch  them.  She  wanted  to 
talk  with  them.  It  was  as  though  a  lover  of  the  drama, 
eager  to  sree  his  favorite  actress  in  her  greatest  part, 
^  were  to  find  himself  viewing  her  in  a  badly  constructed 
film  play. 

So  Fanny  Brandeis  took  to  prowling.  There  are 
people  who  have  a  penchant  for  cities — more  than  that, 
a  talent  for  them,  a  gift  of  sensing  them,  of  feeling  their 
rhythm  and  pulse-beats,  as  others  have  a  highly  de- 
veloped music  sense,  or  color  reaction.  It  is  a  thing 
that  cannot  be  acquired.  In  Fanny  Brandeis  there  was 
this  abnormal  response  to  the  color  and  tone  of  any 
city.  And  Chicago  was  a  huge,  polyglot  orchestra, 
made  up  of  players  in  every  possible  sort  of  bizarre 
costume,  performing  on  every  known  instrument,  leader- 
less,  terrifyingly  discordant,  yet  with  an  occasional 
strain,  exquisite  and  poignant,  to  be  heard  through  the 
clamor  and  din. 

A  walk  along  State  street  (the  wrong  side)  ov  Michi- 
gan avenue  at  five,  or  through  one  of  the  city's  foreign 
quarters,  or  along  the  lake  front  at  dusk,  stimulated 
her  like  strong  wine.  She  was  drunk  with  it.  And  all 
the  time  she  would  say  to  herself,  little  blind  fool  that 
she  was : 

"Don't  let  it  get  you.  Look  at  it,  but  don't  think 
about  it.  Don't  let  the  human  end  of  it  touch  you. 
^There's  nothing  in  it." 

And  meanwhile  she  was  feasting  on  those  faces  in 
the  crowds.  Those  faces  in  the  crowds !  They  seemed 
.  to  leap  out  at  her.  They  called  to  her.  So  she  sketched 
them,  telling  herself  that  she  did  it  by  way  of  relaxa- 
tion, and  diversion.  One  afternoon  she  left  her  desk 
early,  and  perched  herself  on  one  of  the  marble  benches 
that  lined  the  sunken  garden  just  across  from  the  main 


160  FANNY   HERSELF 

group  of  Haynes-Cooper  buildings.  She  waiated  to  see 
what  happened  when  those  great  buildings  emptied. 
Even  her  imagination  did  not  meet  the  actuality.  At 
.  5 :30  the  streets  about  the  plant  were  empty,  except  for 
an  occasional  passerby.  At  5:31  there  trickled  down 
the  broad  steps  of  building  after  building  thin  dark 
streams  of  humanity,  like  the  first  slow  line  of  lava  that ' 
crawls  down  the  side  of  an  erupting  volcano.  The 
trickle  broadened  into  a  stream,  spread  into  a  flood, 
became  a  torrent  that  inundated  the  streets,  the  side- 
walks, filling  every  nook  and  crevice,  a  moving  mass. 
Ten  thousand  people!  A  city!  Fanny  found  herself 
shaking  with  excitement,  and  something  like  terror  at 
the  immensity  of  it.  She  tried  to  get  a  picture  of  it, 
.a  sketch,  with  the  gleaming  windows  of  the  red  brick 
buildings  as  a  background.  Amazingly  enough,  she 
succeeded  in  doing  it.  That  was  because  she  tned  for 
broad  effects,  and  relied  on  one  bit  of  detail  for  her 
story.  It  was  the  face  of  a  girl — a  very  tired  and  taw- 
dry girl,  of  sixteen,  perhaps.  On  her  face  the  look  that 
the  day's  work  had  stamped  there  was  being  wiped 
gently  away  by  another  look;  a  look  that  said  release, 
and  a  sweetheart,  and  an  evening  at  the  movies;  Fanny, 
in  some  miraculous  way,  got  it. 
~  She  prowled  in  the  Ghetto,  and  sketched  those  patient 
Jewish  faces,  often  grotesque,  sometimes  repulsive,  al- 
ways mobile.  She  wandered  down  South  Clark  street, 
flaring  with  purple-white  arc-lights,  and  looked  in  at 
its  windows  that  displayed  a  pawnbroker's  glittering 
wares,  or,  just  next  door,  a  flat-topped  stove  over 
which  a  white-capped  magician  whose  face  smacked 
of  the  galley,  performed  deft  tricks  with  a  pancake 
turner.  "Southern  chicken  dinner,"  a  lying  sign  read, 
*'with  waffles  and  real  maple  syrup,  35^."  Past  these 
windows  promenaded  the  Clark  street  women,  hard- 
eyed,  high-heeled,  aigretted ;  on  the  street  corners  loafed 
vthe   Clark   street  men,  blue-shaven,   wearing   checked 


FANNY   HERSELF  161 

suits,  soiled  faun-topped  shoes,  and  diamond  scarf  pins. 
And  even  as  she  watched  them,  fascinated,  they  van- 
ished. Clark  street  changed  overnight,  and  became  a 
business  thoroughfare,  lined  with  stately  office  build- 
ings, boasting  marble  and  gold-leaf  banks,  filled  with 
hurrying  clerks,  stenographers,  and  prosperous  bond 

.  salesmen.  It  was  like  a  sporting  man  who,  thriving  in 
middle  age,  endeavors  to  live  down  his  shady  past. 

Fanny  discovered  Cottage  Grove  avenue,  and  Halsted 
street,  and  Jefferson,  and  South  State,  where  she  should 
never  have  walked.  There  is  an  ugliness  about  Chi- 
cago's ugly  streets  that,  for  sheer,  naked  brutality,  is 
equaled  nowhere  in  the  world.  London  has  its  foul 
streets,  smoke-blackened,  sinister.  But  they  are  ugly 
as  crime  is  ugly — and  as  fascinating.  It  is  like  the 
ugliness  of  an  old  hag  who  has  lived  a  life,  and  wha 
could  tell  you  strange  tales,  if  she  would.  Walking 
through  them  you  think  of  Fagin,  of  Children  of  the 
Ghetto,  of  Tales  of  Mean  Streets.  Naples  is  honey- 
combed with  narrow,  teeming  alleys,  grimed  witb  the 
sediment  of  centuries,  colored  like  old  Stilton,  and 
smelling  much  worse.  But  where  is  there  another  Cot- 
tage Grove  avenue!  Sylvan  misnomer!  A  hideous 
street,  and  sordid.  A  street  of  flat- wheeled  cars,  of 
delicatessen  shops  and  moving  picture  houses,  of  clang- 
ing bells,  of  frowsy  women,  of  men  who  dart  around 
comers  with  pitchers,  their  coat  collars  turned  up  to 
hide  the  absence  of  linen.  One  day  Fanny  found  her- 
self at  Fifty-first  street,  and  there  before  her  lay  Wash- 

( ington  Park,  with  its  gracious  meadow,  its  Italian  gar- 
den, its  rose  walk,  its  lagoon,  and  drooping  willows. 
But  then,  that  was  Chicago.  All  contrast.  The  Illi- 
nois Central  railroad  puffed  contemptuous  cinders  into 
the  great  blue  lake.  And  almost  in  the  shadow  of  the 
City  Hall  nestled  Bath-House  John's  groggery. 

Michigan  Avenue  fascinated  her  most.  Here  was  a 
street  developing  before  one's  eyes.    To  walk  on  it  was 


^ 


162  FANNY   HERSELF 

like  being  present  at  a  birth.  It  is  one  of  the  few 
streets  in  the  world.  New  York  has  two,  Paris  a  hun- 
dred, London  none,  Vienna  one.  Berlin,  before  the  war, 
knew  that  no  one  walked  Unter  den  Linden  but  Ameri- 
can tourists  and  German  shopkeepers  from  the  prov- 
inces, with  their  fat  wives.  But  this  Michigan  Boule- 
vard, unfinished  as  Chicago  itself,  shifting  and  changing 
daily,  still  manages  to  take  on  a  certain  form  and  rug- 
ged beauty.  It  has  about  it  a  gracious  breadth.  As  you 
turn  into  it  from  the  crash  and  thunder  of  Wabash 
there  comes  to  you  a  sense  of  peace.  That's  the  sweep 
of  it,  and  the  lake  just  beyond,  for  Michigan  avenue  is 
a  one-side  street.  It's  west  side  is  a  sheer  mountain  wall 
of  office  buildings,  clubs,  and  hotels,  whose  ground  floors 
are  fascinating  with  specialty  shops.  A  milliner  tan- 
talizes the  passer-by  with  a  single  hat  stuck  know- 
ingly on  a  carved  stick.  An  art  store  shows  two  etch- 
ings, and  a  vase.  A  jeweler's  window  holds  square 
blobs  of  emeralds,  on  velvet,  and  perhaps  a  gold  mesh 
bag,  sprawling  limp  and  invertebrate,  or  a  diamond  and 
platinum  la  valhere,  chastely  barbaric.  Past  these  win- 
dows, from  Randolph  to  Twelfth  surges  the  crowd: 
matinee  girls,  all  white  fox,  and  giggles  and  orchids; 
wise-eyed  saleswomen  from  the  smart  specialty  shops, 
dressed  in  next  week's  mode;  art  students,  hugging  their 
precious  flat  packages  under  their  arms ;  immigrants,  in 
corduroys  and  shawls,  just  landed  at  the  Twelfth  street 
station;  sightseeing  families,  dazed  and  weary,  from 
Kansas ;  tailored  and  sabled  Lake  Shore  Drive  dwellers ;. 
convention  delegates  spilling  out  of  the  Auditorium  ho- 
tel, red-faced,  hoarse,  with  satin  badges  pinned  on  their 
coats,  and  their  hats  (the  wrong  kind)  stuck  far  back 
on  their  heads ;  music  students  to  whom  Michigan  Ave- 
nue means  the  Fine  Arts  Building.  There  you  have  the 
west  side.  But  just  across  the  street  the  walk  is  as 
deserted  as  though  a  pestilence  lurked  there.  Here 
the  Art  Institute  rears  its  smoke-blackened  face,  and 


FANNY   HERSELF  163 

Grant  Park's  greenery  struggles  bravely  against  the 
poisonous  breath  of  the  Illinois  Central  engines. 

Just  below  Twelfth  street  block  after  block  shows 
the  solid  plate  glass  of  the  automobile  shops,  their 
glittering  wares  displayed  against  an  absurd  back- 
ground of  oriental  rugs,  Tiffany  lamps,  potted  plants, 
and  mahogany.  In  the  windows  pose  the  salesmen,  no 
less  sleek  and  glittering  than  their  wares.  Just  below 
these,  for  a  block  or  two,  rows  of  sinister  looking  houses, 
fallen  into  decay,  with  slatternly  women  lolling  at  their 
windows,  and  gas  jets  flaring  blue  in  dim  hallways. 
Below  Eighteenth  still  another  change,  where  the  fat 
stone  mansions  of  Chicago's  old  families  (save  the 
mark!)  hide  their  diminished  heads  behind  signs  that 
read: 

"Marguerite.  Robes  et  Manteaux."  And,  "Smolkin. 
Tailor." 

Now,  you  know  that  women  buyers  for  mail  order 
houses  do  not  spend  their  Saturday  afternoons  and  Sun- 
days thus,  prowling  about  a  city's  streets.  Fanny 
Brandeis  knew  it  too,  in  her  heart.  She  knew  that  the 
Ella  Monahans  of  her  world  spent  their  holidays  in 
stayless  relaxation,  manicuring,  mending  a  bit,  skim- 
ming the  Sunday  papers,  massaging  crows'-feet  some- 
what futilely.  She  knew  that  women  buyers  do  not,  as 
a  rule,  catch  their  breath  with  delight  at  sight  of  the 
pock-marked  old  Field  Columbian  museum  in  Jackson 
Park,  softened  and  beautified  by  the  kindly  gray  chiffon 
of  the  lake  mist,  and  tinted  by  the  rouge  of  the  sun- 
set glow,  so  that  it  is  a  thing  of  spectral  loveliness. 
Successful  mercantile  women,  seeing  the  furnace  glare 
of  the  South  Chicago  steel  mills  flaring  a  sullen  red 
against  the  lowering  sky,  do  not  draw  a  disquieting 
mental  picture  of  men  toiling  there,  naked  to  the  waist, 
and  glistening  with  sweat  in  the  devouring  heat  of  the 
fires. 

I  don't  know  how  she  tricked  herself.    I  suppose  she 


:^-c)5P'"^      „,xW0* 


164  FANNY   HERSELF 

said  it  was  the  city's  appeal  to  the  country  dweller, 
but  she  lied,  and  she  knew  she  was  lying.  She  must 
have  known  it  was  the  spirit  of  Molly  Brandeis  in  her, 
if  ^  and  of  Molly  Brandeis'  mother,  and  of  her  mother's 
mother's  mother,  down  the  centuries  to  Sarah;  re- 
pressed women,  suffering  women,  troubled,  patient, 
nomadic  women,  struggling  now  in  her  for  expres- 
,  sion. 

^  And  Fanny  Brandeis  went  doggedly  on,  buying  and 
selling  infants'  wear,  and  doing  it  expertly.  Her  office 
desk  would  have  interested  you.  It  was  so  likely  to  bft' 
littered  with  the  most  appealing  bits  of  apparel — a  pair 
of  tiny,  crocheted  bootees,  pink  and  white;  a  sturdy 
linen  smock;  a  silken  hood  so  small  that  one's  doubled 
fist  filled  it. 

The  new  catalogue  was  on  the  presses.  Fanny  had 
slaved  over  it,  hampered  by  Slosson.  Fenger  had  given 
her  practically  a  free  hand.  Results  would  not  come 
in  for  many  days.  The  Christmas  trade  would  not  tell 
the  tale,  for  that  was  always  a  time  of  abnormal  busi- 
ness. The  dull  season  following  the  holiday  rush  would 
show  the  real  returns.  Slosson  was  discouragement  it- 
'  self.  His  attitude  was  not  resentful ;  it  was  pitying, 
'  and  that  frightened  Fanny.  She  wished  that  he  would 
storm  a  little.  Then  she  read  her  department  catalogue 
proof  sheets,  and  these  reassured  her.  They  were  at- 
tractive. And  the  new  baby  book  had  turned  out  very 
well,  with  a  colored  cover  that  would  appeal  to  jiny 
one  who  had  ever  been  or  seen  a  baby. 

September  brought  a  letter  from  Theodore.  A  let- 
ter from  Theodore  meant  just  one  thing.  Fanny  hesi- 
tated a  moment  before  opening  it.  She  always  hesi- 
tated before  opening  Theodore's  letters.  While  she 
hesitated  the  old  struggle  would  rage  in  her. 

"I  don't  owe  him  anything,"  the  thing  within  her 
would  say.  "God  knows  I  don't.  What  have  I  done 
all  my  life  but  give,  and  give,  and  give  to  him!    I'm  a 


FANNY   HERSELF  165 

woman.  He's  a  man.  Let  him  work  with  his  hands,  as 
I  do.    He's  had  his  share.    More  than  his  share." 

Nevertheless  she  had  sent  him  one  thousand  of  the 
six  thousand  her  mother  had  bequeathed  to  her.  She 
didn't  want  to  do  it.  She  fought  doing  it.  But  she 
did  it. 

Now,  as  she  held  this  last  letter  in  her  hands,  and 
stared  at  the  Bavarian  stamp,  she  said  to  herself: 

"He  wants  something.  Money.  If  I  send  him  some 
I  can't  have  that  new  tailor  suit,  or  the  furs.  And  I 
need  them.    I'm  going  to  have  them." 

She  tore  open  the  letter. 

'*Dear  Old  Fan: 

"Olga  and  I  are  back  in  Munich,  as  you  see.  I 
think  we'll  be  here  all  winter,  though  Olga  hates  it. 
She  says  it  isn't  lustig.  Well,  it  isn't  Vienna,  but 
I  think  there's  a  chance  for  a  class  here  of  American 
pupils.  Munich's  swarming  with  Americans — ^whole 
families  who  come  here  to  live  for  a  year  or  two.  I 
think  I  might  get  together  a  very  decent  class,  backed 
by  Auer's  recommendations.  Teaching !  Good  God, 
how  I  hate  it!  But  Auer  is  planning  a  series  of 
twenty  concerts  for  me.  They  ought  to  be  a  suc- 
cess, if  slaving  can  do  it.  I  worked  six  hours  a  day 
all  summer.  I  wanted  to  spend  the  summer — most 
of  it,  that  is — in  Holzhausen  Am  Ammersee,  which 
is  a  little  village,  or  artist's  colony  in  the  valley,  an 
hour's  ride  from  here,  and  within  sight  of  the 
Bavarian  Alps.  We  had  Kurt  Stein's  little  villa  for 
almost  nothing.  But  Olga  was  bored,  and  she  wasn't 
well,  poor  girl,  so  we  went  to  Interlaken  and  it  was 
awful.  And  that  brings  me  to  what  I  want  to  tell 
you. 

"There's  going  to  be  a  baby.     No  use  saying  I'm 
glad,  because  I'm  not,  and  neither  is  Olga.     About 


166  FANNY   HERSELF 

February,  I  think.  Olga  has  been  simply  wretched, 
but  the  doctor  says  she'll  feel  better  from  now  on. 
The  truth  of  it  is  she  needs  a  lot  of  things  and  I 
can't  give  them  to  her.  I  told  you  I'd  been  working 
on  this  concerto  of  mine.  Sometimes  I  think  it's  the 
real  thing,  if  only  I  could  get  the  leisure  and  the 
peace  of  mind  I  need  to  work  on  it.    You  don't  know 

\  what  it  means  to  be  eaten  up  with  ambition  and  to 

/be  handicapped " 

"Oh,  don't  I!"  said  Fanny  Brandeis,  between  her 
teeth,  and  crumpled  the  letter  in  her  strong  fingers. 
"Don't  I !"  She  got  up  from  her  chair  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  her  little  office,  up  and  down.  A 
man  often  works  off  his  feelings  thus ;  a  woman  rarely. 
Fenger,  who  had  not  been  twice  in  her  office  since  her 
coming  to  the  Haynes-Cooper  plant,  chose  this  moment 
to  visit  her,  his  hands  full  of  papers,  his  head  full  of 
plans.  He  sensed  something  wrong  at  once,  as  a  highly 
organized  human  instrument  responds  to  a  similarly 
constructed  one. 

"What's  wrong,  girl?" 

^'Everything.    And  don't  call  me  girl." 

Fenger  saw  the  letter  crushed  in  her  hand. 

"Brother?"  She  had  told  him  about  Theodore  and 
he  had  been  tremendously  interested. 

"Yes." 

"Money  again,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"You  know  your  salary's  going  up,  after  Christ- 
mas." 

"Catalogue  or  no  catalogue .?" 

"Catalogue  or  no  catalogue." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you've  earned  it.'* 

Fanny  faced  him  squarely.  *^  know  that  Haynes- 
Cooper  isn't  exactly  a  philanthropic  institution^     A 


FANNY   HERSELF  16T 

salary  raise  here  usually  means  a  battle.     I've  only 
been  here  three  months." 

Fenger  seated  himself  in  the  chair  beside  her  desk 
and  ran  a  cool  finger  through  the  sheaf  of  papers  in  his 
hand.  "My  dear  girl — I  beg  your  pardon.  I  forgot. 
My  good  woman  then — if  you  like  that  better — you've 
transfused  red  blood  into  a  dying  department.  It  may 
suffer  a  relapse  after  Christmas,  but  I  don't  think  so. 
That's  why  you're  getting  more  money,  and  not  because 
I  happen  to  be  tremendously  interested  in  you,  person- 
aUy." 

Fanny's  face  flamed  scarlet.    "I  didn't  mean  that." 

"Yes  you  did.  Here  are  those  comparative  lists  you 
sent  me.  If  I  didn't  know  Slosson  to  be  as  honest  as 
Old  Dog  Tray  I'd  think  he  had  been  selling  us  to  the 
manufacturers.  No  wonder  this  department  hasn't 
paid.  He's  been  giving  'em  top  prices  for  shoddy. 
Now  what's  this  new  plan  of  yours .?"  |v 

In  an  instant  Fanny  forgot  about  Theodore,  the  new  i 
winter  suit  and  furs,  everything  but  the  idea  that  was  1 
clamoring  to  be  bom.    She  sat  at  her  desk,  her  fingers 
folding  and  unfolding  a  bit  of  paper,  her  face  all  light 
and  animation  as  she  talked. 

*'My  idea  is  to  have  a  person  known  as  a  selector  for 
each  important  department.  It  would  mean  a  boiling 
down  of  the  products  of  every  manufacturer  we  deal 
with,  and  skimming  the  cream  off  the  top.  As  it  is  now 
a  department  buyer  has  to  do  the  selecting  and  buying 
too.  He  can't  do  both  and  get  results.  We  ought  to 
set  aside  an  entire  floor  for  the  display  of  manufactur- 
ers' samples.  The  selector  would  make  his  choice  among 
these,  six  months  in  advance  of  the  season.  The  selec- 
tor would  go  to  the  eastern  markets  too,  of  course. 
Not  to  buy.  Merely  to  select.  Then,  with  the  line 
chosen  as  far  as  style,  quality,  and  value  is  concerned, 
the  buyer  would  be  free  to  deal  directly  with  the  manu- 
facturer as  to  quantity,  time,  and  all  that.    You  know 


168  FANNY   HERSELF 

as  well  as  I  that  that's  enough  of  a  job  for  any  one 
person,  with  the  labor  situation  what  it  is.  He  wouldn't 
need  to  bother  about  styles  or  colors,  or  any  of  thatt 
It  would  all  have  been  done  for  him.  The  selector  would 
have  the  real  responsibility.  Don't  you  see  the  simplic 
ity  of  it,  and  the  way  it  would  grease  the  entire  ma- 
chinery .?" 
I  Something  very  like  jealousy  came  into  Michael  Fen- 
ger's  face  as  he  looked  at  her.  But  it  was  gone  in  an 
instant.  "Gad!  You'll  have  my  job  away  from  me 
in  two  years.  You're  a  super-woman,  do  you  know 
that.?" 

"Super  nothing!  It's  just  a  perfectly  good  idea, 
founded  on  common  sense  and  economy." 

"M-m-m,  but  that's  all  Columbus  had  in  mind  when 
he  started  out  to  find  a  short  cut  to  India." 

Fanny  laughed  out  at  that.  "Yes,  but  see  where  he 
landed!" 

But  Fenger  was  serious.  "We'll  have  to  have  a 
meeting  on  this.  Are  you  prepared  to  go  into  detail  on 
it,  before  Mr.  Haynes  and  the  two  Coopers,  at  a  real 
meeting  in  a  real  mahogany  directors'  room.'*  Wednes- 
day, say.?" 

"I  think  so." 

Fenger  got  up.  "Look  here.  Miss  Brandeis.  You 
need  a  day  in  the  country.  Why  don't  you  run  up  to 
your  home  town  over  Sunday.?  Wisconsin,  wasn't 
it.?" 

"Oh,  no !    No.    I  mean  yes  it  was  Wisconsin,  but  no 
/ 1  don't  want  to  go." 

"Then  let  me  send  you  my  car." 

"Car !  No,  thanks.  That's  not  my  idea  of  the  coun- 
try." 

"It  was  just  a  suggestion.  What  do  you  call  go- 
ing to  the  country,  then.?" 

"Tramping  all  day,  and  getting  lost,  if  possible. 
Lying  down  under  a  tree  for  hours,  and  letting  the  ants 


FANNY   HERSELF  169 

amble  over  you.  Dreaming.  And  coming  back  tired, 
hungry,  dusty,  and  refreshed." 

"It  sounds  awfully  uncomfortable.  But  I  wish  you'd 
try  it,  this  week." 

"Do  I  look  such  a  wreck?"  Fanny  demanded,  rather 
pettishly. 

'*You!"  Fenger's  voice  was  vibrant.  ''You're  the 
most  splendidly  alive  looking  woman  I  ever  saw.  When 
you  came  into  my  office  that  first  day  you  seemed  to 
spark  with  health,  and  repressed  energy,  and  electricity, 
so  that  you  radiated  them.  People  who  can  do  that, 
stimulate.     That's  what  you  are  to  me — a  stimulant." 

What  can  one  do  with  a  man  who  talks  like  that.^ 
After  all,  what  he  said  was  harmless  enough.  His  tone 
was  quietly  sincere.  One  can't  resent  an  expression 
of  the  eyes.  Then,  too,  just  as  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  be  angry  she  remembered  the  limp  and  querulous 
Mrs.  Fenger,  and  the  valve  and  the  scarf.  And  her 
anger  became  pity.  There  flashed  back  to  her  the  illu- 
minating bit  of  conversation  with  which  Fascinating 
Facts  had  regaled  her  on  the  homeward  drive  that  night 
of  the  tea. 

"Nice  chap,  Fenger.  And  a  wiz  in  business.  Get's 
a  king's  salary.  Must  be  hell  for  a  man  to  be  tied, 
hand  and  foot,  the  way  he  is." 

"Tied?" 

"Mrs.  Fenger's  a  semi-invalid.  At  that  I  don't  be- 
lieve she's  as  helpless  as  she  seems.  I  think  she  just 
holds  him  by  that  shawl  of  hers,  that's  forever  slipping. 
You  know  he  was  a  machine  boy  in  her  father's  woolen 
mill.  She  met  him  after  he'd  worked  his  way  up  to  an 
office  job.  He  has  forged  ahead  like  a  locomotive  ever 
since." 

That  had  been  their  conversation,  gossipy,  but  tre- 
mendously enlightening  for  Fanny.  She  looked  up  at 
him  now. 

''Thanks  for  the  vacation  suggestion,    I  may  go  oflP! 


170  FANNY   HERSELF 

somewhere.  Just  a  last-mmute  leap.  It  usually  turns 
out  better,  that  way.  I'll  be  ready  for  the  Wednesday 
discussion." 

She  sounded  very  final  and  busy.  The  crumpled  let- 
ter lay  on  her  desk.  She  smoothed  it  out,  and  the  crum- 
ple transferred  itself  to  her  forehead.  Fenger  stood 
a  moment,  looking  down  at  her.  Then  he  turned, 
abruptly  and  left  the  office.  Fanny  did  not  look 
up. 

That  was  Friday.  On  Saturday  her  vacation  took 
a  personally  conducted  turn.  She  had  planned  to  get 
away  at  noon,  as  most  office  heads  did  on  Saturday, 
during  the  warm  weather.  When  her  'phone  rang  at 
eleven  she  answered  it  mechanically  as  does  one  whose 
telephone  calls  mean  a  row  with  a  tardy  manufacturer, 
an  argument  with  a  merchandise  man,  or  a  catalogue 
query  from  the  printer's. 

The  name  that  came  to  her  over  the  telephone  con- 
veyed nothing  to  her. 

"Who.?"  Again  the  name.  "HeyL?"  She  repeated 
the  name  uncertainly.  "I'm  afraid  I — O,  of  course! 
Clarence  Heyl.     Howdy-do." 

"I  want  to  see  you,"  said  the  voice,  promptly. 

There  rose  up  in  Fanny's  mind  a  cruelly  clear  picture 
of  the  little,  sallow,  sniveling  school  boy  of  her  girl- 
hood. The  little  boy  with  the  big  glasses  and  the  shiny 
shoes,  and  the  weak  lungs. 

"Sorry,"  she  replied,  promptly,  "but  I'm  afraid  it's 
impossible.  I'm  leaving  the  office  early,  and  I'm 
swamped."     Which  was  a  lie. 

"This  evening.?" 

"I  rarely  plan  anything  for  the  evening.  Too  tired, 
as  a  rule." 

"Too  tired  to  Hrive?'' 

"I'm  afraid  so." 

A  brief  silence.  Then,  "I'm  coming  out  there  to  see 
you." 


FANNY   HERSELF  171 

**Where?  Here?  The  plant!  That's  impossible, 
Mr.  Heyl.    I'm  terribly  sorry,  but  I  can't " 

"Yes,  I  know.  Also  terribly  sure  that  if  I  ever  get 
to  you  it  will  be  over  your  office  boy's  dead  body.  Well, 
arm  him.    I'm  coming.    Good-by." 

"Wait  a  minute!  Mr.  Heyl!  Clarence!  Hello! 
Hello!" 

A  jiggling  of  the  hook.  "Number,  please?"  droned 
the  voice  of  the  operator. 

Fanny  jammed  the  receiver  down  on  the  hook  and 
turned  to  her  work,  lips  compressed,  a  frown  forming 
a  double  cleft  between  her  eyes. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  there.  Her  office  boy 
brought  in  his  card,  as  she  had  rehearsed  him  to  do. 
Fanny  noted  that  it  was  the  wrong  kind  of  card.  She 
would  show  him  what  happened  to  pushers  who  pestered 
business  women  during  office  hours. 

"Bring  him  in  in  twenty  minutes,"  she  said,  grimly. 
Her  office  boy  (and  slave)  always  took  his  cue  from 
her.  She  hoped  he  wouldn't  be  too  rude  to  Heyl,  and 
turned  back  to  her  work  again.  Thirty-nine  seconds 
later  Clarence  Heyl  walked  in. 

"Hello,  Fan!"  he  said,  and  had  her  limp  hand  in  a 
grip  that  made  her  wince. 

"But  I  told ^" 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  he's  a  crushed  and  broken  office 
boy  by  now.    I  had  to  be  real  harsh  with  him." 

Fanny  stood  up,  really  angry  now.  She  looked  up  at 
Clarence  Heyl,  and  her  eyes  were  flashing.  Clarence 
Heyl  looked  down  at  her,  and  his  eyes  were  the  keenest, 
kindest,  most  gently  humorous  eyes  she  had  ever  en- 
countered. You  know  that  picture  of  Lincoln  that 
shows  us  his  eyes  with  much  that  expression  in  them? 
That's  as  near  as  I  can  come  to  conveying  to  you  the 
whimsical  pathos  in  this  man.  They  were  the  eyes  of 
a  lonely  little  boy  grown  up.  And  they  had  seen  much 
in  the  process. 


172  FANNY   HERSELF 

^^"^^        Fanny  felt  her  little  blaze  of  anger  flicker  and  die. 

"That's  the  girl,"  said  Heyl,  and  patted  her  hand. 
*'You'll  like  me — presently.  After  you've  forgotten 
about  that  sniveling  kid  you  hated."  He  stepped  back 
a  pace  and  threw  back  his  coat  senatorially.  "How  do 
I  look  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Look?"  repeated  Fanny,  feebly. 

"I've  been  hours  preparing  for  this.  Years !  And 
now  something  tells  me — This  tie,  for  instance." 

Fanny  bit  her  lip  in  a  vain  effort  to  retain  her 
solemnity.  Then  she  gave  it  up  and  giggled,  frankly. 
"Well,  since  you  ask  me,  that  tie ! " 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?" 

Fanny  giggled  again.     "It's  red,  that's  what." 

"Well,  what  of  it !  Red's  all  right.  I've  always  con- 
sidered red  one  of  our  leading  colors." 

"But  you  can't  wear  it." 

"Can't!    Why  can't  I.?" 

"Because  you're  the  brunest  kind  of  brunette.  And 
dark  people  have  a  special  curse  hanging  over  them 
that  makes  them  want  to  wear  red.  It's  fatal.  That 
tie  makes  you  look  like  a  Mafia  murderer  dressed  for 
business." 

"I  knew  it,"  groaned  Heyl.  "Something  told  me." 
He  sank  into  a  chair  at  the  side  of  her  desk,  a  picture 
of  mock  dejection.  "And  I  chose  it.  Deliberately.  I 
had  black  ones,  and  blue  ones,  and  green  ones.  And  I 
chose — this."    He  covered  his  face  with  a  shaking  hand. 

Fanny  Brandeis  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and 
laughed,  and  laughed,  and  laughed.  Surely  she  heidn't 
laughed  like  that  in  a  year  at  least. 

"You're  a  madman,"  she  said,  finally. 

At  that  Heyl  looked  up  with  his  singularly  winning 
smile.  "But  different.  Concede  that,  Fanny.  Be  fair, 
now.     Refreshingly  different." 

"Different,"  said  Fanny,  "doesn't  begin  to  cover  it. 
Well,  now  you're  here,  tell  me  what  you're  doing  here.** 


FANNY   HERSELE  173 

"Seeing  you." 

"I  mean  here,  in  Chicago." 

"So  do  I.  I'm  on  my  way  from  Winnebago  to  New 
York,  and  I'm  in  Chicago  to  see  Fanny  Brandeis." 

"Don't  expect  me  to  believe  that." 

Heyl  put  an  arm  on  Fanny's  desk  and  learned  for- 
ward, his  face  very  earnest.  "I  do  expect  you  to  be- 
lieve it.  I  expect  you  to  believe  everything  I  say  to 
you.  Not  only  that,  I  expect  you  not  to  be  surprised 
at  anything  I  say.  I've  done  such  a  mass  of  private 
thinking  about  you  in  the  last  ten  years  that  I'm  likely 
to  forget  I've  scarcely  seen  you  in  that  time.  Just  re- 
member, will  you,  that  like  the  girl  in  the  sob  song, 
'You  made  me  what  I  am  to-day?'  " 

"I !    You're  being  humorous  again." 

"Never  less  so  in  my  life.  Listen,  Fan.  That  cow- 
ardly, sickly  little  boy  you  fought  for  in  the  street, 
that  day  in  Winnebago,  showed  every  sign  of  growing 
up  a  cowardly,  sickly  man.  You're  the  real  reason  for 
his  not  doing  so.  Now,  wait  a  minute.  I  was  an  im- 
pressionable little  kid,  I  guess.  Sickly  ones  are  apt  to 
be.  I  worshiped  you  and  hated  you  from  that  day.  ^ 
Worshiped  you  for  the  blazing,  generous,  whole-souled 
little  devil  of  a  spitfire  that  you  were.  Hated  you  be- 
cause— well,  what  boy  wouldn't  hate  a  girl  who  had  to 
fight  for  him.  Gosh !  It  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  it, 
even  now.    Pasty-faced  rat!" 

"What  nonsense !    I'd  forgotten  all  about  it." 

"No  you  hadn't.     Tell  me,  what  flashed  into  your  ' 
mind  when  you  saw  me  in  Temple  that  night  before  you 
left  Winnebago  ?    The  truth,  now."  I 

She  learned,  later,  that  people  did  not  lie  to  him.  ; 
She   tried   it  now,   and   found  herself   saying,   rather  ; 
shamefacedly,  "I  thought  'Why,  it's  Clarence  Heyl,  the 
Cowardy-Cat!'" 

"There!  That's  why  I'm  here  to-day.  I  knew  you 
were  thinking  that.     I  knew  it  all  the  time  I  was  in 


174  FANNY   HERSELF 

Colorado,  growing  up  from  a  sickly  kid,  with  a  bum 
lung,  to  a  heap  big  strong  man.  It  forced  me  to  do 
things  I  was  afraid  to  do.  It  goaded  me  on  to  stunts 
at  the  very  thought  of  which  I'd  break  out  in  a  clammy 
sweat.  Don't  you  see  how  I'll  have  to  turn  handsprings 
in  front  of  you,  like  the  school-boy  in  the  McCutcheon 
cartoon?  Don't  you  see  how  I'll  have  to  flex  my  mus- 
cles— like  this — to  show  you  how  strong  I  am?  I  may 
even  have  to  beat  you,  eventually.  Why,  child,  I've 
chummed  with  lions,  and  bears,  and  wolves,  and  every- 
thing, because  of  you,  you  little  devil  in  the  red  cap ! 
I've  climbed  unclimbable  mountains.  I've  frozen  my  feet 
in  blizzards.  I've  wandered  for  days  on  a  mountain 
top,  lost,  living  on  dried  currants  and  milk  chocolate, — 
and  Lord!  how  I  hate  milk  chocolate!  I've  dodged 
snowslides,  and  slept  in  trees;  I've  endured  cold,  and 
hunger  and  thirst,  through  you.  It  took  me  years  to 
get  used  to  the  idea  of  passing  a  timber  wolf  without 
looking  around,  but  I  learned  to  do  it — because  of  you. 
You  made  me.  They  sent  me  to  Colorado,  a  lonely  kid, 
with  a  pretty  fair  chance  of  dying,  and  I  would  have, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  you.  There!  How's  that  for  a 
burst  of  speech,  young  woman!  And  wait  a  minute. 
Remember,  too,  my  name  was  Clarence.  I  had  that  to 
live  down." 

Fanny  was  staring  at  him  eyes  round,  lips  parted. 
'*But  why?"  she  said,  faintly.     "Why?" 

Heyl  smiled  that  singularly  winning  smile  of  his. 
"Since  you  force  me  to  it,  I  think  I'm  in  love  with  that 
little,  warm-hearted  spitfire  in  the  red  cap.  That's 
why." 

Fanny  sat  forward  now.  She  had  been  leaning  back 
in  her  chair,  her  hands  grasping  its  arms,  her  face  a 
lovely,  mobile  thing,  across  which  laughter,  and  pity, 
and  sympathy  and  surprise  rippled  and  played.  It 
hardened  now,  and  set.  She  looked  down  at  her  hands, 
and  clasped  them  in  her  lap,  then  up  at  him.    "In  that 


FANNY.  HERSELF  175 

case,  you  can  forsake  the  strenuous  life  with  a  free 
conscience.  You  need  never  climb  another  mountain, 
or  wrestle  with  another — er — hippopotamus.  That  lit- 
tle girl  in  the  red  cap  is  dead." 

'*Dead?" 

"Yes.  She  died  a  year  ago.  If  the  one  who  has 
taken  her  place  were  to  pass  you  on  the  street  to- 
day, and  see  you  beset  by  forty  thieves,  she'd  not  even 
stop.  Not  she.  She'd  say,  'Let  him  fight  it  out  alone. 
It's  none  of  your  business.  You've  got  your  own  fights 
to  handle.' " 

*'Why — ^Fanny.  You  don't  mean  that,  do  you? 
What  could  have  made  her  like  that?" 

*'She  just  discovered  that  fighting  for  others  didn't 
pay.  She  just  happened  to  know  some  one  else  who 
had  done  that  all  her  life  and — ^it  killed  her." 

"Her  mother?" 

"Yes." 

A  little  silence.  **Fanny,  let's  play  outdoors  to- 
morrow, will  you?    All  day." 

Involuntarily  Fanny  glanced  around  the  room.  Pa- 
pers, catalogues,  files,  desk,  chair,  typewriter.  "I'm 
afraid  I've  forgotten  how." 

"I'll  teach  you.  You  look  as  if  you  could  stand  a 
little  of  it." 

"I  must  be  a  pretty  sight.  You're  the  second  man 
to  tell  me  that  in  two  days." 

Heyl  leaned  forward  a  little.  "That  so  ?  Who's  the 
other  one?" 

"Fenger,  the  General  Manager." 

"Oh!  Paternal  old  chap,  I  suppose.  No?  Well, 
anyway,  I  don't  know  what  he  had  in  mind,  but  you're 
going  to  spend  Sunday  at  the  dunes  of  Indiana  with 
me." 

"Dunes?    Of  Indiana?" 

"There's  nothing  like  them  in  the  world.  Literally. 
In  September  that  combination  of  yellow  sand,  and. 


176  FANNY   HERSELF 

blue  lake,  and  the  woods  beyond  is — well,  you'll  see 
what  it  is.  It's  only  a  little  more  than  an  hour's  ride 
by  train.  And  it  will  just  wipe  that  tired  look  out  of 
your  face,  Fan."  He  stood  up.  "I'll  call  for  you  to- 
morrow morning  at  eight,  or  thereabouts.  That's 
early  for  Sunday,  but  it's  going  to  be  worth  it." 

"I  can't.  Really.  Besides,  I  don't  think  I  even 
want  to.     I " 

"I  promise  not  to  lecture  on  Nature,  if  that's  what's 
worrying  you."  He  took  her  hand  in  a  parting  grip. 
"Bring  some  sandwiches,  will  you?  Quite  a  lot  of  'em. 
I'll  have  some  other  stuff  in  my  rucksack.  And  wear 
some  clothes  you  don't  mind  wrecking.  I  suppose  you 
haven't  got  a  red  tam  o'  shanter.'"' 

"Heavens,  no!" 

"I  just  thought  it  might  help  to  keep  me  hinnble." 
He  was  at  the  door,  and  so  was  she,  somehow,  her  hand 
still  in  his.  "Eight  o'clock.  How  do  you  stand  it  in 
this  place.  Fan?  Oh,  well — ^I'll  find  that  out  to-mor- 
row.   Good-by." 

Fanny  went  back  to  her  desk  and  papers.  The  room 
seemed  all  at  once  impossibly  stuffy,  her  papers  and  let- 
ters dry,  meaningless  things.  In  the  next  office,  sepa- 
rated from  her  by  a  partition  half  glass,  half  wood, 
she  saw  the  top  of  Slosson's  bald  head  as  he  stood  up 
to  shut  his  old-fashioned  roll-top  desk.  He  was  leav- 
ing. She  looked  out  of  the  window.  Ella  Monahan,  in 
hat  and  suit,  passed  and  came  back  to  poke  her  head 
in  the  door. 

"Run  along!"  she  said.  *'It's  Saturday  afternoon. 
You'll  work  overtime  enough  when  the  Christmas  rush 
begins.     Come  on,  child,  and  call  it  a  day !" 

And  Fanny  gathered  papers,  figures,  catalogue 
proofs  into  a  glorious  heap,  thrust  them  into  a  drawer, 
locked  the  drawer,  pushed  back  her  chair,  and  came. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 

FANNY  told  herself,  before  she  went  to  bed  Satur- 
day night,  that  she  hoped  it  would  rain  Sunday 
morning  from  seven  to  twelve.  But  when  Princess 
woke  her  at  seven-thirty,  as  per  instructions  left  in 
penciled  scrawl  on  the  kitchen  table,  she  turned  to  the 
window  at  once,  and  was  glad,  somehow,  to  find  it  sun- 
flooded.  Princess,  if  you're  mystified,  was  royal  in 
name  only — a  biscuit-tinted  lady,  with  a  very  black 
and  no-account  husband  whose  habits  made  it  neces- 
sary for  Princess  to  let  herself  into  Fanny's  four-room 
flat  at  seven  every  morning,  and  let  herself  out  at 
eight  every  evening.  She  had  an  incredibly  soft  and 
musical  voice,  had  Princess,  and  a  cooking  hand.  She 
kept  Fanny  mended,  fed  and  comfortable,  and  her  only 
cross  was  that  Fanny's  taste  in  blouses  (ultimately 
her  property)  ran  to  the  severe  and  tailored. 

"Mawnin'j  Miss  Fanny.  There's  a  gep'mun  waitin* 
to  see  yo'." 

Fanny  choked  on  a  yawn.    "A  what !" 

*'Gep'mun.  Says  yo-all  goin'  picnickin'.  He's  in 
the  settin'  room,  a-lookin'  at  yo'  pictchah  papahs. 
Will  Ah  fry  yo'  up  a  li'l  chicken  to  pack  along? 
San'wiches  ain't  no  eatin'  fo'  Sunday." 

Fanny  flung  back  her  covers,  swung  around  to  the 
side  of  the  bed,  and  stood  up,  all,  seemingly,  in  one 
sweeping  movement.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  he's  in 
there,  now?" 

From  the  sitting  room.  "I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you 
I  can  hear  everything  you're  saying.  Say,  Fanny, 
these  sketches  of  yours  are Why,  Gree  Whiz!    I 


178  FANNY   HERSELF 

didn't  know  you  did  that  kind  of  thing.    This  one  here, 
with  that  girl's  face  in  the  crowd " 

"For  heaven's  sake!"  Fanny  demanded,  *Vhat  are 
you  doing  here  at  seven-thirty?  And  I  don't  allow 
people  to  look  at  those  sketches.  You  said  eight- 
thirty." 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  change  your  mind,  or  some- 
thing. Besides,  it's  now  twenty-two  minutes  to  eighC. 
And  will  you  tell  the  lady  that's  a  wonderful  idea 
about  the  chicken?    Only  she'd  better  start  now." 

Goaded  by  time  bulletins  shouted  through  the  closed 
door,  Fanny  found  herself  tubbed,  clothed,  and  ready 
for  breakfast  by  eight-ten.  When  she  opened  the  door 
Clarence  was  standing  in  the  center  of  her  little  sitting 
room,  waiting,  a  sheaf  of  loose  sketches  in  his  hand. 
\  "Say,  look  here!  These  are  the  real  thing.  Why, 
they're  great!  They  get  you.  This  old  geezer  with 
the  beard,  selling  fish  and  looking  like  one  of  the  Dis- 
ciples. And  this.  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  in 
a  mail  order  house,  or  whatever  it  is?  Tell  me  that! 
When  you  can  draw  like  this !" 

"Good  morning,"  said  Fanny,  calmly.  "And  I'll 
tell  you  nothing  before  breakfast.  The  one  thing  that 
interests  me  this  moment  is  hot  coffee.  Will  you  have 
some  breakfast?  Oh,  well,  a  second  one  won't  hurt 
you.  You  must  have  got  up  at  three,  or  thereabouts." 
She  went  toward  the  tiny  kitchen.  "Never  mind. 
Princess.  I'll  wait  on  myself.  You  go  on  with  that 
chicken." 

Princess  was  the  kind  of  person  who  can  fry  a 
chicken,  wrap  it  in  cool,  crisp  lettuce  leaves,  box  it, 
cut  sandwiches,  and  come  out  of  the  process  with  an 
unruffled  temper  and  an  immaculate  kitchen.  J  Thanks 
to  her,  Fanny  and  Heyl  found  themselves  on  the  eight 
fifty-three  train,  bound  for  the  dunes. 

Clarence  swung  his  rucksack  up  to  the  bundle  rack. 
He  took  off  his  cap,  and  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket.    He 


FANNY   HERSELF  179 

was  grinning  like  a  schoolboy.  Fanny  turned  from 
the  window  and  smiled  at  what  she  saw  in  his  face.  At 
that  he  gave  an  absurd  little  bounce  in  his  place,  like 
an  overgrown  child,  and  reached  over  and  patted  her 
hand. 

"I've  dreaimed  of  this  for  years." 

"You're  just  fourteen,  going  on  fifteen,"  Fanny 
reproved  him. 

"I  know  it.  And  it's  great!  Won't  you  be,  too.? 
Forget  you're  a  fair  financier,  or  whatever  they  call  it. 
Forget  you  earn  more  in  a  month  than  I  do  in  six. 
Relax.  Unbend.  Loosen  up.  Don't  assume  that 
hardshell  air  with  me.  Just  remember  that  I  knew  you 
when  the  frill  of  your  panties  showed  below  your 
skirt." 

"Clarence  Heyl!" 

But  he  was  leaning  past  her,  and  pointing  out  of 
the  window.  "See  that  curtain  of  smoke  off  there? 
That's  the  South  Chicago,  and  the  Hammond  and  Gary 
steel  mills.  Wait  till  you  see  those  smokestacks  against 
the  sky,  and  the  iron  scaffoldings  that  look  like  giant 
lacework,  and  the  slag  heaps,  and  the  coal  piles,  and 
those  huge,  grim  tanks.  Gad!  It's  awful  and  beauti- 
ful.   Like  the  things  Pennell  does." 

"I  came  out  here  on  the  street  car  one  <day,"  said 
Fanny,  quietly.    "One  Sunday." 

"You  did  1"    He  stared  at  her. 

"It  was  hot,  and  they  were  all  spilling  out  into  the 
street.  You  know,  the  women  in  wrappers,  just  blobs 
of  flesh  trying  to  get  cool.  And  the  young  girls  in 
their  pink  silk  dresses  and  white  shoes,  and  the  boys  on 
the  street  comers,  calling  to  them.  Babies  all  over  the 
sidewalks  and  streets,  and  the  men  who  weren't  in  the 
miUs — you  know  how  they  look  in  their  Sunday  shirt- 
sleeves, with  their  flat  faces,  and  high  cheekbones,  and 
their  great  brown  hands  with  the  broken  nails. 
Hunkies.    Well,  at  five  the  motor  cars  began  whizzing 


180  FANNY   HERSELF 

by  from  the  country  roads  back  to  Chicago.    You  have 

ito  go  back  that  way.  Just  then  the  five  o'clock 
whistles  blew  and  the  day  shift  came  off.  There  was 
«i  great  army  of  them,  clumping  down  the  road  the  way 

ithey  do.     Their  shoulders  were  slack,  and  their  lunch 

I  pails  dangled,  empty,  and  they  were  wet  and  reeking 

;with  sweat.     The  motor  cars  were  full  of  wild  phlox 

i»nd  daisies  and  spiderwort." 

'  Clarence  was  still  turned  sideways,  looking  at  her. 
<*Get  apictureof  it.?" 

"Yes.     I  tried,  at  least." 

*'Is  that  the  way  you  usually  spend  your  Sundays  ?** 
*'Well,  I — I  like  snooping  about." 
"M-m,"  mused  Clarence.     Then,  "How's  busineee, 
Fanny?" 

I  "Business?"  You  could  almost  feel  her  mind  jerk 
back.     "Oh,  let's  not  talk  about  business  on  Sunday." 

'  "I  thought  so,"  said  Clarence,  enigmatically.  "Now 
listen  to  me,  Fanny." 

[  "I'll  listen,"  interrupted  she,  "if  you'll  talk  about 
yourself.  I  want  to  know  what  you're  doing,  and  why 
you're  going  to  New  York.  What  business  can  a  natu- 
ralist have  in  New  York,  anyway?" 

'  "I  didn't  intend  to  be  a  naturalist.  You  can  tell  that 
by  looking  at  me.  But  you  can't  have  your  very  nose 
rubbed  up  against  trees,  and  rocks,  and  mountains, 
and  snow  for  years  and  years  without  learning  some-| 
thing  about  'em.  There  were  whole  weeks  when  I  hadn't 
anything  to  chum  with  but  a  timber-line  pine  and  an 
odd  assortment  of  mountain  peaks.  We  just  had  to 
get  acquainted." 

"But  y^ou're  going  back,  aren't  you?  Don't  they 
talk  about  the  spell  of  the  mountains,  or  some  such 
thing?" 

"They  do.  And  they're  right.  And  I've  got  to  have 
them  six  months  in  the  year,  at  least.  But  I'm  going 
to  try  spending  the  other  six  in  the  bosom  of  the  hu- 


FANNY   HERSELF  181 

man  race.  Not  only  that,  I'm  going  to  write  about  it. 
Writing's  my  job,  really.  At  least,  it's  the  thing  I 
like  best." 

"Nature?" 

"Human  nature.  I  went  out  to  Colorado  jTist  a 
lonesome  little  kid  with  a  bum  lung.  The  lung's  all 
right,  but  I  never  did  quite  get  over  the  other.  Two 
years  ago,  in  the  mountains,  I  met  Carl  Lasker,  who 
owns  the  New  York  Star.  It's  said  to  be  the  greatest 
morning  paper  in  the  country.  Lasker's  a  genius. 
And  he  fries  the  best  bacon  I  ever  tasted.  I  took  him 
on  a  four-weeks'  horseback  trip  through  the  mountains. 
We  got  pretty  well  acquainted.  At  the  end  of  it  he 
offered  me  a  job.  You  see,  I'd  never  seen  a  chorus  girlj 
or  the  Woolworth  building,  or  a  cabaret,  or  a  broilea) 
lobster,  or  a  subway.  But  I  was  interested  and  curious 
about  all  of  them.  And  Lasker  said,  'A  man  who  can 
humanize  a  rock,  or  a  tree,  or  a  cliipmunk  ought  to  be 
able  to  make  even  those  things  seem  human.  You've 
got  what  they  call  the  fresh  viewpoint.  New  York's 
full  of  people  with  a  scum  over  their  eyes,  but  a  lot 
of  them  came  to  New  York  from  Winnebago,  or  towns 
just  like  it,  and  you'd  be  surprised  at  the  number  of 
them  who  still  get  their  home  town  paper.  One  day, 
when  I  came  into  Lee  Kohl's  office,  with  stars,  and  lead- 
ing men,  and  all  that  waiting  outside  to  see  him,  he 
was  sitting  with  his  feet  on  the  desk  reading  the  Shef- 
field, Illinois,  Gazette  J*  You  see,  the  thing  he  thinks 
I  can  do  is  to  give  them  a  picture  of  New  York  as  they 
used  to  see  it,  before  they  got  color  blind.  A  column 
or  so  a  day,  about  anything  that  hits  me.  How  does 
that  strike  you  as  a  job  for  a  naturalist?" 

"It's  a  job  for  a  human  naturalist.  I  think  you'll 
cover  it." 

If  you  know  the  dunes,  which  you  probably  don't, 
you  know  why  they  did  not  get  off  at  Millers,  with 
the  crowd,  but  rode  on  until  they  were  free  of  the  Sun- 


182  FANNY   HERSELF 

day  picnickers.  Then  they  got  off,  and  walked  across 
the  tracks,  past  saloons,  and  a  few  huddled  houses, 
hideous  in  yellow  paint,  and  on,  and  on  down  a  road 
that  seemed  endless.  A  stretch  of  cinders,  then  dust, 
a  rather  stiff  little  hill,  a  great  length  of  yellow  sand 
and — the  lake!  We  say,  the  lake!  like  that,  with  an 
exclamation  point  after  it,  because  it  wasn't  at  all  the 
Lake  Michigan  that  Chicagoans  know.  This  vast  blue 
glory  bore  no  relation  to  the  sullen,  gray,  turbid  thing 
that  the  city  calls  the  lake.  It  was  all  the  blues  of 
which  you've  ever  heard,  and  every  passing  cloud  gave 
it  a  new  shade.  Sapphire.  No,  cobalt.  No,  that's 
too  cold.  Mediterranean.  Turquoise.  And  the  sand 
in  golden  contrast.  Miles  of  sand  along  the  beach, 
and  back  of  that  the  dunes.  Now,  any  dictionary  or 
Scotchman  will  tell  you  that  a  dune  is  a  hill  of  loose 
sand.  But  these  dunes  are  done  in  American  fashion, 
lavishly.  Mountains  of  sand,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
and  on  the  top  of  them,  incredibly,  great  pine  trees 
that  clutch  at  their  perilous,  shifting  foothold  with 
frantic  root-toes.  And  behind  that,  still  more  incredi- 
bly, the  woods,  filled  with  wild  flowers,  with  strange 
growths  found  nowhere  else  in  the  whole  land,  with 
trees,  and  vines,  and  brush,  and  always  the  pungent 
scent  of  the  pines.  And  there  you  have  the  dunes — 
blue  lake,  golden  sand-hills,  green  forest,  in  one. 

Fanny  and  Clarence  stood  there  on  the  sand,  in 
silence,  two  ridiculously  diminutive  figures  in  that  great 
wilderness  of  beauty.  I  wish  I  could  get  to  you,  some- 
how, the  clear  sparkle  of  it,  the  brilliance  of  it,  and 
yet  the  peace  of  it.  They  stood  there  a  long  while, 
those  two,  without  speaking.  Then  Fanny  shut  her 
eyes,  and  I  think  her  lower  lip  trembled  just  a  little. 
And  Clarence  patted  her  hand  just  twice. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said,  "in  the  name  of  that  much- 
abused  lady  known  as  Nature." 

Said  Fanny,  "I  want  to  scramble  up  to  the  top  of 


FANNY   HERSELF  183 

one  of  those  dunes — the  high  one — and  just  sit  there." 
And  that  is  what  they  did.  A  poor  enough  Sunday, 
I  suppose,  in  the  minds  of  those  of  you  who  spend 
yours  golfing  at  the  club,  or  motoring  along  grease- 
soaked  roads  that  lead  to  a  shore  dinner  and  a  ukulele 
band.  But  it  turned  Fanny  Brandeis  back  a  dozen 
years  or  more,  so  that  she  was  again  the  little  girl 
whose  heart  had  ached  at  sight  of  the  pale  rose  and 
orange  of  the  Wisconsin  winter  sunsets.  She  forgot 
all  about  layettes,  and  obstetrical  outfits,  and  flannel 
bands,  and  safety  pins;  her  mind  was  a  blank  in  the 
matter  of  bootees,  and  catalogues,  and  our  No. 
29E8347,  and  those  hungry  bins  that  always  yawned 
for  more.  She  forgot  about  Michael  Fenger,  and  Theo- 
dore, and  the  new  furs.  They  scrambled  up  dunes, 
digging  into  the  treacherous  sand  with  heels,  toes,  and 
the  side  of  the  foot,  and  clutching  at  fickle  roots  with 
frantic  fingers.  Forward  a  step,  and  back  two — that's  j 
dune  cHrnbing.  A  back-breaking  business,  unless ; 
you're  young  and  strong,  as  were  these  two.  They  ex-  ^ 
plored  the  woods,  and  Heyl  had  a  fascinating  way  of ' 
talking  about  stones  and  shrubs  and  trees  as  if  they 
were  endowed  with  human  qualities — as  indeed  theyj 
were  for  him.  They  found  a  hill-slope  carpeted  with 
dwarf  huckleberry  plants,  still  bearing  tiny  clusters 
of  the  blue-black  fruit.  Fanny's  heart  was  pounding, 
her  lungs  ached,  her  cheeks  were  scarlet,  her  eyes  shin- 
ing. Heyl,  steel-muscled,  took  the  hills  like  a  chamois. 
Once  they  crossed  hands  atop  a  dune  and  literally 
skated  down  it,  right,  left,  right,  left,  shrieking  with 
laughter,  and  ending  in  a  heap  at  the  bottom. 

"In  the  name  of  all  that's  idiotic!"  shouted  Heyl. 
"Silk  stockings !  What  in  thunder  made  you  wear  silk 
stockings!    At  the  sand  dunes!    Gosh!" 

They  ate  their  dinner  in  olympic  splendor,  atop 
a  dune.  Heyl  produced  unexpected  things  from  the 
rucksack — things  that  ranged  all  the  way  from  milk 


184  FANNY   HERSELF 

chocolate  to  literature,  and  from  grape  juice  to  ciga- 
rettes. They  ate  ravenously,  but  at  Heyl's  thrifty 
suggestion  they  saved  a  few  sandwiches  for  the  late 
afternoon.  It  was  he,  too,  who  made  a  little  bonfire 
of  papers,  crusts,  and  bones,  as  is  the  cleanly  habit  of 
your  true  woodsman.  Then  they  stretched  out,  full 
length,  in  the  noon  sun,  on  the  warm,  clean  sand. 

"What's  your  best  price  on  one-sixth  doz.  flannel 
vests?"  inquired  Heyl. 

And,  "Oh,  shut  up!"  said  Fanny,  elegantly.  Heyl 
laughed  as  one  who  hugs  a  secret. 

"We'll  work  our  way  down  the  beach,"  he  an- 
nounced, "toward  Millers.  There'll  be  northern  lights 
to-night;  did  you  know  that?  Want  to  stay  and  see 
them?" 

"Do  I  want  to !    I  won't  go  home  till  I  have." 

These  were  the  things  they  did  on  that  holiday; 
childish,  happy,  tiring  things,  such  as  people  do  who 
love  the  outdoors. 

The  charm  of  Clarence  Heyl — for  he  had  charm — is 
difficult  to  transmit.  His  lovableness  and  appeal  lay 
in  his  simplicity.  It  was  not  so  much  what  he  said 
as  in  what  he  didn't  say.  He  was  staring  unwinkingly 
now  at  the  sunset  that  had  suddenly  burst  upon  them. 
His  were  the  eyes  of  one  accustomed  to  the  silent  dis- 
tances. 

"Takes  your  breath  away,  rather,  doesn't  it?  All 
that  color?"  said  Fanny,  her  face  toward  the  blaze. 

"Almost  too  obvious  for  my  taste,  I  like  'em  a  little 
more  subdued,  myself."  They  were  atop  a  dune,  and 
he  stretched  himself  flat  on  the  sand,  still  keeping  his 
bright  brown  eyes  on  lake  and  sky.  Then  he  sat  up, 
excitedly.  "Heh,  try  that!  Lie  flat.  It  softens  the 
whole  thing.  Like  this.  Now  look  at  it.  The  lake's 
like  molten  copper  flowing  in.  And  you  can  see  that 
silly  sun  going  down  in  jerks,  like  a  balloon  on  a 
string." 


FANNY   HERSELF  185 

They  lay  there,  silent,  while  the  scarlet  became  or- 
ange, the  orange  faded  to  rose,  the  rose  to  pale  pinks 
to  salmon,  to  mauve,  to  gray.  The  first  pale  star 
came  out,  and  the  brazen  lights  of  Gary,  far  to  the 
north,  defied  it. 

Fanny  sat  up  with  a  sigh  and  a  little  shiver. 

"Fasten  up  that  sweater  around  your  throat,"  said 
Heyl.  *'Got  a  pin.''"  They  munched  their  sandwiches, 
rather  soggy  by  now,  and  drank  the  last  of  the  grape 
juice.  "We'll  have  a  bite  of  hot  supper  in  town,  at  a 
restaurant  that  doesn't  mind  Sunday  trampers.  Come 
on.  Fan.  We'll  start  down  the  beach  until  the  northern 
lights  begin  to  show." 

"It's  been  the  most  accommodating  day,"  murmured 
Fanny.  "Sunshine,  sunset,  northern  lights,  every- 
thing. If  we  were  to  demand  a  rainbow  and  an  eclipse 
they'd  turn  those  on,  too." 

They  started  to  walk  down  the  beach  in  the  twi- 
light, keeping  close  to  the  water's  edge  where  the  sand 
was  moist  and  firm.  It  was  hard  going.  They  plunged 
along  arm  in  arm,  in  silence.  Now  and  again  they 
stopped,  with  one  accord,  and  looked  out  over  the  great 
gray  expanse  that  lay  before  them,  and  then  up  at  the 
hills  and  the  pines  etched  in  black  against  the  sky. 
Nothing  competitive  here,  Fanny  thought,  and  took  a 
deep  breath.  She  thought  of  to-morrow's  work,  with, 
day  after  to-morrow's  biting  and  snapping  at  its  heels. 

Clarence  seemed  to  sense  her  thoughts.  "Doesn't 
this  make  you  feel  you  want  to  get  away  from  those 
damned  bins  that  you're  forever  feeding?  I  watched 
those  boys  for  a  minute,  the  other  day,  outside  your 
office.    Jove !" 

Fanny  dug  a  heel  into  the  sand,  savagely.  "Some 
days  I  feel  that  I've  got  to  walk  out  of  the  office,  and 
down  the  street,  without  a  hat,  and  on,  and  on,  walking 
and  walking,  and  running  now  and  then,  till  I  come 
to  the  horizon.    That's  how  I  feel,  some  days," 


186  FANNY   HERSELF 

"Then  some  day,  Fanny,  that  feeling  will  get  too 
strong  for  you,  and  you'll  do  it.  Now  listen  to  me. 
Tuck  this  away  in  your  subconscious  mind,  and  leave 
it  there  until  you  need  it.  When  that  time  comes  get 
on  a  train  for  Denver.  From  Denver  take  another  to 
Estes  Park.  That's  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  they're 
your  destination,  because  that's  where  the  horizon  lives 
and  has  its  being.  When  you  get  there  ask  for  Heyl's 
place.  They'll  just  hand  you  from  one  to  the  other, 
gently,  until  you  get  there.  I  may  be  there,  but  more 
likely  I  shan't.  The  key's  in  the  mail  box,  tied  to  a 
string.  You'll  find  a  fire  already  laid,  in  the  fireplace, 
with  fat  pine  knots  that  wiU  blaze  up  at  the  touch  of 
a  match.  My  books  are  there,  along  the  walls.  The 
bedding's  in  the  cedar  chest,  and  the  lamps  are  filled. 
There's  tinned  stufi'  in  the  pantry.  And  the  mountains 
are  there,  girl,  to  make  you  clean  and  whole  again. 
And  the  pines  that  are  nature's  prophylactic  brushes. 
And  the  sky.  And  peace.  That  sounds  like  a  railway 
folder,  but  it's  true.  I  know."  They  trudged  along 
in  silence  for  a  little  while.     "Got  that?" 

'^-m,"  replied  Fanny,  disinterestedly,  without  look- 
ing at  him. 

Heyl's  jaw  set.  You  could  see  the  muscles  show 
white  for  an  instant.  Then  he  said:  "It  has  been  a 
wonderful  day,  Fanny,  but  you  haven't  told  me  a  thing 
about  yourself.  I'd  like  to  know  about  your  work. 
I'd  like  to  know  what  you're  doing;  what  your  plan  is. 
You  looked  so  darned  definite  up  there  in  that  office. 
Whom  do  you  play  with?  And  who's  this  Fenger — 
wasn't  that  the  name.^ — ^who  saw  that  you  looked 
tired?" 

"All  right,  Clancy.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,"  Fanny 
agreed,  briskly. 

"All  right— who!" 

"Well,  I  can't  call  you  Clarence.  It  doesn't  fit.  So 
just  for  the  rest  of  the  day  let's  make  it  Clancy,  even 


FANNY   HERSELF  187 

if  you  do  look  like  one  of  the  minor  Hebrew  prophets, 
minus  the  beard." 

And  so  she  began  to  tell  him  of  her  work  and  her 
aims.  I  think  that  she  had  been  craving  just  this 
chance  to  talk.  That  which  she  told  him  was,  uncon- 
sciously, a  confession.  She  told  him  of  Theodore  and 
his  marriage ;  of  her  mother's  death ;  of  her  coming  to 
Haynes-Cooper,  and  the  changes  she  had  brought 
about  there.  She  showed  him  the  infinite  possibilities 
for  advancement  there.  Slosson  she  tossed  aside. 
Then,  rather  haltingly,  she  told  him  of  Fenger,  of  his 
business  genius,  his  magnetic  qualities,  of  his  career. 
She  even  sketched  a  deft  word-picture  of  the  limp  and 
irritating  Mrs.  Fenger. 

"Is  this  Fenger  in  love  with  you.'*"  a^ked  Heyl, 
startlingly. 

Fanny  recoiled  at  the  idea  with  a  primness  that  did 
credit  to  Winnebago. 

"Clancy!     Please!     He's  married." 

"Now  don't  sneak,  Fanny.  And  don't  talk  like  an 
ingenue.  So  far,  you've  outlined  a  life-plan  that  makes 
Becky  Sharp  look  like  a  cooing  dove.  So  just  answer 
this  straight,  will  you?" 

"Why,  I  suppose  I  attract  him,  as  any  man  of  his 
sort,  with  a  wife  like  that,  would  be  attracted  to  a 
healthily  alert  woman,  whose  ideas  match  his.  And  I 
wish  3^ou  wouldn't  talk  to  me  like  that.     It  hurts." 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  I  was  afraid  you'd  passed  that 
stage.  Well  now,  how  about  those  sketches  of  yours.'' 
I  suppose  you  know  that  they're  as  good,  in  a  crude, 
efi^ective  sort  of  way,  as  anything  that's  being  done 
to-day." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"     But  then  she  stopped,  suddenly, 
and  put  both  hands  on  his  arm,  and  looked  up  at  him, 
her  face  radiant  in  the  gray  twilight.     "Do  you  reaUy 
think  they're  good!" 
"     "You  bet  they're  good.     There  isn't  a  newspaper 


A^ 


188  FANNY   HERSELF 

in  the  country  that  couldn't  use  that  kind  of  stuff. 
And  there  aren't  three  people  in  the  country  who  can 
do  it.  It  isn't  a  case  of  being  able  to  draw.  It's  be- 
ing able  to  see  life  in  a  peculiar  light,  and  to  throw 
that  light  so  that  others  get  the  glow.  Those  sketches 
I  saw  this  morning  are  life,  served  up  raw.  That's 
your  gift,  Fanny.     Why  the  devil  don't  you  use  it !" 

But  Fanny  had  got  herself  in  hand  again.  "It  isn't 
a  gift,"  she  said,  lightly.  "It's  just  a  little  knack 
that  amuses  me.  There's  no  money  in  it.  Besides,  it's 
too  late  now.  One's  got  to  do  a  thing  superlatively, 
nowadays,  to  be  recognized.  I  don't  draw  superla- 
tively, but  I  do  handle  infants'  wear  better  than  any 
woman  I  know.  In  two  more  years  I'll  be  getting  ten 
thousand  a  year  at  Haynes-Cooper.  In  five 
years " 

"Then  what?" 

Fanny's  hands  became  fists,  gripping  the  power  she 
craved.  "Then  I  shall  have  arrived.  I  shall  be  able 
to  see  the  great  and  beautiful  things  of  this  world,  and 
mingle  with  the  people  who  possess  them." 

"When  you  might  be  making  them  yourself,  you 
little  fool.  Don't  glare  at  me  like  that.  I  tell  you 
that  those  pictures  are  the  real  expression  of  you. 
That's  why  you  turn  to  them  as  relief  from  the  shop 
grind.    You  can't  help  doing  them.    They're  you." 

"I  can  stop  if  I  want  to.    They  amuse  me,  that's  aU." 

"You  can't  stop.  It's  in  your  blood.  It's  the  Jew 
in  you." 

"The Here,  I'll  show  you.    I  won't  do  another 

sketch  for  a  year.  I'll  prove  to  you  that  my  ancestors' 
religion  doesn't  influence  my  work,  or  my  play." 

"Dear,  you  can't  prove  that,  because  the  contrary 
has  been  proven  long  ago.  You  yourself  proved  it 
when  you  did  that  sketch  of  the  old  fish  vender  in  the 
Ghetto.  The  one  with  the  beard.  It  took  a  thousand 
years  of  suffering  and  persecution  and  faith  to  stamp 


FANNY   HERSELF  189 

that  look  on  his  face,  and  it  took  a  thousand  years  to  1 
breed  in  you  the  genius  to  see  it,  and  put  it  down  on 
paper.    Fan,  did  you  ever  read  Fishberg's  book?"        -•' 

"No,"  said  Fanny,  low-voiced. 

"Sometime,  when  you  can  snatch  a  moment  from 
the  fascinations  of  the  mail  order  catalogue,  read  it. 
Fishberg  says — I  wish  I  could  remember  his  exact 
words — 'It  isn't  the  body  that  marks  the  Jew.  It's  his 
Soul.  The  type  is  not  anthropological,  or  physical; 
it's  social  or  psychic.  It  isn't  the  complexion,  the  nose,  v 
the  lips,  the  head.  It's  his  Soul  which  betrays  his  \ 
faith.  Centuries  of  Ghetto  confinement,  ostracism, 
ceaseless  sufi^ering,  have  produced  a  psychic  type.  The 
thing  that  is  stamped  on  the  Soul  seeps  through  the 
veins  and  works  its  way  magically  to  the  face ' " 

"But  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  souls !     Please ! 
You're  spoiling  a  wonderful  day." 

"And  you're  spoiling  a  wonderful  life.     I  don't  ob- 
ject to  this  driving  ambition  in  you.     I  don't  say  that 
you're  wrong  in  wanting  to  make  a  place  for  yourself 
in  the  world.     But  don't  expect  me  to  stand  by  and  let 
you  trample  over  your  own  immortal  soul  to  get  there.  ' 
Your  head  is  busy  enough  on  this  infants'  wear  job, 
but  how  about  the  rest  of  you — ^how  about  You  ?    What 
do  you  suppose  all  those  years  of  work,  and  suppres- 
sion, and  self-denial,  and  beauty-hunger  there  in  Win- 
nebago were  meant  for !    Not  to  develop  the  mail  order  ^ 
business.     They  were  given  you  so  that  you  might  rec-  \ 
ognize    hunger,    and    suppression,    and    self-denial    in  i 
others.     The  light  in  the  face  of  that  girl  in  the  crowd  j 
pouring  out  of  the  plant.     What's  that  but  the  re-j 
flection  of  the  light  in  you!     I  tell  you,  Fanny,  we 
Jews   have   got   a  money-grubbing,   loud-talking,   dia-' 
mond-studded,   get-there-at-any-price   reputation,   and 
perhaps  we  deserve  it.    But  every  now  and  then,  out  of 
the  mass  of  us,  one  lifts  his  head  and  stands  erect,  and 
the  great  white  light  is  in  his  face.    And  that  person 


190  FANNY   HERSELF 

has  suffered,  for  suffering  breeds  genius.  It  expands 
the  soul  just  as  over-prosperity  shrivels  it.  You  see 
it  all  the  way  from  Lew  Fields  to  Sarah  Bernhardt; 
from  Mendelssohn  to  Irving  Berlin;  from  Mischa  El- 
man  to  Charlie  Chaplin.  You  were  a  person  set  apart 
in  Winnebago.  Instead  of  thanking  your  God  for  that, 
you  set  out  to  be  something  you  aren't.  No,  it's  worse 
than  that.  You're  trying  not  to  be  what  you  are.  And 
it's  going  to  do  for  you." 

"Stop!"  cried  Fanny.  "My  head's  whirling.  It 
sounds  like  something  out  of  'Alice  in  Wonderland.' " 

"And  you,"  retorted  Heyl,  "sound  like  some  one  who's 
afraid  to  talk  or  think  about  herself.  You're  suppress- 
ing the  thing  that  is  you.  You're  cutting  yourself  off 
from  your  own  people — a  dramatic,  impulsive,  emotion- 
al people.  By  doing  those  things  you're  killing  the  jgoose 
that  lays  the  golden  egg.  What's  that  old  copy-book 
line.?     *To  thine  own  self  be  true,'  and  the  rest  of  it." 

"Yes;  like  Theodore,  for  example,"  sneered  Fanny. 

At  which  unpleasant  point  Nature  kindly  supplied  a 
diversion.  Across  the  black  sky  there  shot  two 
luminous  shafts  of  lights.  Northern  lights,  pale  sisters 
of  the  chromatic  glory  one  sees  in  the  far  north,  but 
still  weirdly  beautiful.  Fanny  and  Heyl  stopped  short, 
faces  upturned.  The  ghostly  radiance  wavered,  ex- 
panded, glowed  palely,  like  celestial  searchlights.  Sud- 
denly, from  the  tip  of  each  shaft,  there  burst  a  cluster 
of  slender,  pin-point  lines,  like  aigrettes  set  in  a  band 
of  silver.  Then  these  slowly  wavered,  faded,  combined 
to  form  a  third  and  fourth  slender  shaft  of  light.  It 
was  like  the  radiance  one  sees  in  the  old  pictures  of  the 
Holy  Family.  Together  Fanny  and  Heyl  watched  it 
in  silence  until  the  last  pale  glimmer  faded  and  was 
gone,  and  only  the  brazen  lights  of  Gary,  far,  far  down 
the  beach,  cast  a  fiery  glow  against  the  sky. 

They  sighed,  simultaneously.  Then  they  laughed, 
each  at  the  other. 


FANNY  HERSELF  191 

^Curtain,"  said  Fanny.  They  raced  for  the  station, 
(despite  the  sand.  Their  car  was  filled  with  pudgy 
babies  lying  limp  in  parental  arms ;  with  lunch  baskets 
exuding  the  sickly  scent  of  bananas;  with  disheveled 
vandals  whose  moist  palms  grasped  bunches  of  wilted 
wild  flowers.  Past  the  belching  chimneys  of  Gary, 
through  South  Chicago,  the  back  yard  of  a  metropolis, 
past  Jackson  Park  that  breathed  coolly  upon  them,  and 
so  to  the  city  again.  They  looked  at  it  with  the  shock 
that  comes  to  eyes  that  have  rested  for  hours  on  long 
stretches  of  sand  and  sky  and  water.  Monday,  that 
had  seemed  so  far  away,  became  an  actuality  of  to- 
morrow. 

Tired  as  they  were,  they  stopped  at  one  of  those 
frank  little  restaurants  that  brighten  Chicago's  drab 
side  streets.  Its  windows  were  full  of  pans  that  held 
baked  beans,  all  crusty  and  brown,  and  falsely  tempt- 
ing, and  of  baked  apples  swimming  in  a  pool  of  syrup. 
These  flanked  by  ketchup  bottles  and  geometrical  pyra- 
mids of  golden  grape-fruit. 

Coff*ee  and  hot  roast  beef  sandwiches,  of  course,  in 
a  place  like  that.  "And,"  added  Fanny,  "one  of  those 
baked  apples.  Just  to  prove  they  can't  be  as  good  as 
they  look." 

They  weren't,  but  she  was  too  himgry  to  care.  Not 
too  hungry,  though,  to  note  with  quick  eye  all  that  the 
little  restaurant  held  of  interest,  nor  too  sleepy  to  re- 
spond to  the  friendly  waitress  who,  seeing  their  dusty 
boots,  and  the  sprig  of  sumac  stuck  in  Fanny's  coat, 
said,  "My,  it  must  have  been  swell  in  the  country  to- 
day !"  as  her  flapping  napkin  precipitated  crumbs  into 
their  laps. 

"It  was,"  said  Fanny,  and  smiled  up  at  the  girl  with 
her   generous,  flashing  smile.      "Here's   a  bit  of  it  I 
brought  back  for  you."     And  she  stuck  the  scarlet 
sumac  sprig  into  the  belt  of  the  white  apron. 
-     They  finished  the  day  incongruously  by  taking  a 


192  FANNY   HERSELF 

t£ixi  home,  Fanny   yawning  luxuriously  all  the  way. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  as  they  parted,  "we've 
talked  about  everything  from  souls  to  infants'  wear. 
We're  talked  out.  It's  a  mercy  you're  going  to  New 
York.    There  won't  be  a  next  time." 

"Young  woman,"  said  Heyl,  forcefully,  "there  will. 
That  young  devil  in  the  red  tam  isn't  dead.  She's 
alive.  And  kicking.  There's  a  kick  in  every  one  of 
those  Chicago  sketches  in  your  portfolio  upstairs.  You 
said  she  wouldn't  fight  anybody's  battles  to-day.  You 
little  idiot,  she's  fighting  one  in  each  of  those  pictures, 
from  the  one  showing  that  girl's  face  in  the  crowd,  to 
the  old  chap  with  the  fish-stall.  She'll  never  die — that 
one.  Because  she's  the  spirit.  It's  the  other  one  who's 
dead — and  she  doesn't  know  it.  But  some  day  she'll 
find  herself  buried.  And  I  want  to  be  there  to  shovel 
on  the  dirt." 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

FROM  the  first  of  December  the  floor  of  the 
Haynes-Cooper  mail  room  looked  like  the  New 
York  Stock  Exchange,  after  a  panic.  The  aisles  were 
drifts  of  paper  against  which  a  squad  of  boys  strug- 
gled as  vainly  as  a  gang  of  snow-shovelers  against  a 
blizzard.  The  guide  talked  in  terms  of  tons  of  mail, 
instead  of  thousands.  And  smacked  his  lips  after  it. 
The  Ten  Thousand  were  working  at  night  now,  stop- 
ping for  a  hasty  bite  of  supper  at  six,  then  back  to 
desk,  or  bin  or  shelf  until  nine,  so  that  Oklahoma  and 
Minnesota  might  have  its  Christmas  box  in  time. 

Fanny  Brandeis,  working  under  the  light  of  her 
green-shaded  desk  lamp,  wondered,  a  little  bitterly,  if 
Christmas  would  ever  mean  anything  to  her  but  pres- 
sure, weariness,  work.  She  told  herself  that  she  would 
not  think  of  that  Christmas  of  one  year  ago.  One 
year!  As  she  glanced  around  the  orderly  little  office, 
and  out  to  the  stock  room  beyond,  then  back  to  her 
desk  again,  she  had  an  odd  little  feeling  of  unreality. 
Surely  it  had  been  not  one  year,  but  many  years — a 
lifetime — since  she  had  elbowed  her  way  up  and  down 
those  packed  aisles  of  the  busy  little  store  in  Winne- 
bago— she  and  that  brisk,  alert,  courageous  woman. 

"Mrs.  Brandeis,  lady  wants  to  know  if  you  can't  put 
this  blue  satin  dress  on  the  dark-haired  doll,  and  the 
pink  satin.  .  .  .  Well,  I  did  tell  her,  but  she  said  for  me 
to  ask  you,  anyway." 

"Mis'  Brandeis,  this  man  says  he  paid  a  dollar  down 
on  a  go-cart  last  month  and  he  wants  to  pay  the  rest 
and  take  it  home  with  him." 

193 


194  FANNY   HERSELF 

And  then  the  reassuring,  authoritative  voice,  **Com- 
ing!     I'll  be  right  there." 

"Coming!"  That  had  been  her  whole  life.  Service, 
And  now  she  lay  so  quietly  beneath  the  snow  of  the  bit- 
ter northern  winter. 

At  that  point  Fanny's  fist  would  come  down  hard 
on  her  desk,  and  the  quick,  indrawn  breath  of  mutinous 
resentment  would  hiss  through  her  teeth. 
)  She  kept  away  from  the  downtown  shops  and 
their  crowds.  She  scowled  at  sight  of  the  holly  and 
mistletoe  wreaths,  with  their  crimson  streamers.  There 
was  something  almost  ludicrous  in  the  way  she  shut  her 
eyes  to  the  holiday  pageant  all  around  her,  and  dou- 
bled and  redoubled  her  work.  It  seemed  that  she  had 
a  new  scheme  for  her  department  every  other  day,  and 
every  other  one  was  a  good  one. 

Slosson  had  long  ago  abandoned  the  attempt  to  keep 
up  with  her.  He  did  not  even  resent  her,  as  he  had  at 
first.  "I'm  a  buyer,"  he  said,  rather  pathetically, 
"and  a  pret-ty  good  one,  too.  But  I'm  not  a  genius, 
and  I  never  will  be.  And  I  guess  you've  got  to  be  a 
genius,  these  days,  to  keep  up.  It  used  to  be  enough 
for  an  infants'  wear  buyer  to  know  muslins,  cottons, 
woolens,  silks,  and  embroideries.  But  that's  old-fash- 
ioned now.  These  days,  when  you  hire  an  office  boy 
you  don't  ask  him  if  he  can  read  and  write.  You  tell 
him  he's  got  to  have  personality,  magnetism,  and  im- 
agination.    Makes  me  sick!" 

The  Baby  Book  came  off  the  presses  and  it  was  good. 
Even  Slosson  admitted  it,  grudgingly.  The  cover  was 
a  sunny,  breezy  seashore  picture,  all  blue  and  gold, 
with  plump,  dimpled  youngsters  playing,  digging  in 
the  sand,  romping  (and  wearing  our  No.  13E1269,  etc., 
sf  course).  Inside  were  displayed  the  complete  baby 
outfits,  with  a  smiling  mother,  and  a  chubby,  crowing 
baby  as  a  central  picture,  and  each  piece  of  each  outfit 
separately  pictured.     Just  below  this,  the  outfit  num- 


FANNY   HERSELF  195 

ber  and  price,  and  a  list  of  the  pieces  that  went  to  make 
it  up.  From  the  emergency  outfit  at  $3.98  to  the  out- 
fit de  luxe  (for  Haynes-Cooper  patrons)  at  $23.50, 
each  group  was  comprehensive,  practical,  complete.  In 
the  back  of  the  book  was  a  personal  service  plea.  "Use 
us,"  it  said.  "We  are  here  to  assist  you,  not  only  in 
the  matter  of  merchandise,  but  with  information  and 
advice.  Mothers  in  particular  are  in  need  of  such 
service.  This  book  will  save  you  weariness  and  worry. 
Use  us." 

Fanny  surveyed  the  book  with  pardonable  pride. 
But  she  was  not  satisfied.  "We  lack  style,"  she  said. 
"The  practical  garments  are  all  right.  But  what  we 
need  is  a  little  snap.  That  means  cut  and  line.  And 
I'm  going  to  New  York  to  get  it."  That  had  always 
been  Slosson's  work. 

She  and  Ella  Monahan  were  to  go  to  the  eastern 
markets  together.  Ella  Mpnahan  went  to  New  York 
regularly  every  three  weeks.  Fanny  had  never  been 
east  of  Chicago.  She  envied  Ella  her  knowledge  of 
the  New  York  wholesalers  and  manufacturers.  EUa 
had  dropped  into  Fanny's  office  for  a  brief  moment. 
The  two  women  had  little  in  common,  except  their  work, 
but  they  got  on  very  well,  and  each  found  the  other 
educating. 

"Seems  to  me  you're  putting  an  awful  lot  into  this," 
observed  Ella  Monahan,  her  wise  eyes  on  Fanny's  rather 
tense  face. 

"You've  got  to,"  replied  Fanny,  "to  get  anything 
out  of  it." 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  Ella  agreed,  and  laughed  a 
rueful  little  laugh.  "I  know  I've  given  'em  everything 
I've  got — and  a  few  things  I  didn't  know  I  had.  It's  a 
queer  game — life.  Now  if  my  old  father  hadn't  run  a 
tannery  in  Racine,  and  if  I  hadn't  run  around  there 
all  the  day,  so  that  I  got  so  the  smell  and  feel  of 
leather  and  hides  were  part  of  me,  why,  I'd  never  be 


196  FANNY   HERSELF 

buyer  of  gloves   at   Haynes-Cooper.      And  you '* 

"Brandeis'  Bazaar."  And  was  going  on,  when  hei? 
office  boy  came  in  with  a  name.  Ella  rose  to  go,  but 
Fanny  stopped  her.  "Father  Fitzpatrick !  Bring  him 
right  in !  Miss  Monahan,  you've  got  to  meet  him. 
He's" — then,  as  the  great  frame  of  the  handsome  old 
priest  filled  the  doorway — "he's  just  Father  Fitzpat- 
rick.    Ella  Monahan." 

The  white-haired  Irishman,  and  the  white-haired 
Irish  woman  clasped  hands. 

"And  who  are  you,  daughter,  besides  being  Ella 
Monahan?" 

"Buyer  of  gloves  at  Haynes-Cooper,  Father." 

"You  don't  tell  me,  now !"  He  turned  to  Fanny,  put 
his  two  big  hands  on  her  shoulders,  and  swung  her 
around  to  face  the  light.  "Hm,"  he  murmured,  non- 
committally,  after  that. 

"Hm — what?"  demanded  Fanny.  "It  sounds  unflat- 
tering, whatever  it  means." 

"Gloves!"  repeated  Father  Fitzpatrick,  unheeding 
her.  "Well,  now,  what  d'you  think  of  that!  Millions 
of  dollars'  worth,  I'll  wager,  in  your  time." 

"Two  million  and  a  half  in  my  department  last  year," 
replied  Ella,  without  the  least  trace  of  boastfulness. 
One  talked  only  in  terms  of  millions  at  Haynes- 
Cooper's. 

"What  an  age  it  is !  When  two  slips  of  women  can 
earn  salaries  that  would  make  the  old  kings  of  Ireland 
look  like  beggars."  He  twinkled  upon  the  older  woman. 
"And  what  a  feeling  it  must  be — independence,  and  all." 

"I've  earned  my  own  living  since  I  was  seventeen," 
said  Ella  Monahan.  "I'd  hate  to  tell  you  how  long  that 
is."  A  murmur  from  the  gallant  Irishman.  "Thanks, 
Father,  for  the  compliment  I  see  in  your  eyes.  But 
what  I  mean  is  this :  You're  right  about  independence. 
It  is  a  grand  thing.  At  first.  But  after  a  while  it 
begins  to  pall  on  you.     Don't  ask  me  why.     I  don't 


rijyiijj*""^'!;-  \'m^'-  4-5's^^-t^^^^j 


'Fanny's    hands    became    fists,    gripping    the    power    she 
craved.    'Then  I  shall  have  arrived.'  " 

^Page  188 


fanny:  herself        197 

know.      I  only  hope  you  won't  think  I'm   a  wicked     / 
woman  when  I  say  I  could  learn  to  love  any  man  who'd     j 
hang  a  silver  fox  scarf  and  a  string  of  pearls  around 
my  neck,  and  ask  me  if  I  didn't  feel  a  draft."  J 

"Wicked !  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  girl.  It's  only  natu- 
ral, and  commendable — barrin'  the  pearls." 

"I'd  forego  them,"  laughed  Ella,  and  with  a  parting 
handshake  left  the  two  alone. 

Father  Fitzpatrick  looked  after  her.  "A  smart 
woman,  that."  He  took  out  his  watch,  a  fat  silver  one. 
"It's  eleven-thirty.  My  train  leaves  at  four.  Now, 
Fanny,  if  you'll  get  on  your  hat,  and  arrange  to  steal 
an  hour  or  so  from  this  Brobdingnagian  place — a 
grand  word  that,  my  girl,  and  nearer  to  swearing  than 
any  word  I  know — I'll  take  you  to  the  Blacks  tone,  no 
less,  for  lunch.  How's  that  for  a  poor  miserable  old 
priest !" 

"You  dear,  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  Oh,  yes,  I  could 
get  away,  but  let's  lunch  right  here  at  the  plant,  in  the 
grill " 

"Never !  I  couldn't.  Don't  ask  it  of  me.  This  place 
scares  me.  I  came  up  in  the  elevator  with  a  crowd  and 
a  guide,  and  he  was  juggling  millions,  that  chap,  the 
way  a  newsboy  flips  a  cent.  I'm  but  a  poor  parish 
priest,  but  I've  got  my  pride.  We'll  go  to  the  Black- 
stone,  which  I've  passed,  humbly,  but  never  been  in, 
with  its  rose  silk  shades  and  its  window  boxes.  And 
we'll  be  waited  on  by  velvet-footed  servitors,  me  girl. 
Get  your  hat." 

Fanny,  protesting,  but  laughing,  too,  got  it.  They 
took  the  L.  Michigan  avenue,  as  they  approached  it 
from  Wabash,  was  wind-swept  and  bleak  as  only  Michi- 
gan avenue  can  be  in  December.  They  entered  the 
warm  radiance  of  the  luxurious  foyer  with  a  little 
breathless  rush,  as  wind-blown  Chicagoans  generally 
do.  The  head  waiter  must  have  thought  Father  Fitz- 
patrick a  cardinal,  at  least,  for  he  seated  them  at  a 


198  FANNY   HERSELF, 

window  table  that  looked  out  upon  the  icy  street,  with 
Grant  Park,  crusted  with  sooty  snow,  just  across  the 
way,  and  beyond  that  the  I.  C.  tracks  and  the  great 
gray  lake.  The  splendid  room  was  all  color,  and  per- 
fume, and  humming  conversation.  A  fountain  tinkled 
in  the  center,  and  upon  its  waters  there  floated  lily 
pads  and  blossoms,  weirdly  rose,  and  mauve,  and  laven- 
der. The  tables  were  occupied  by  deliciously  slim 
young  girls  and  very  self-conscious  college  boys,  home 
for  the  holidays,  and  marcelled  matrons,  furred  and 
aigretted.  The  pink  in  Fanny's  cheeks  deepened.  She 
loved  luxury.  She  smiled  and  flashed  at  the  handsome 
old  priest  opposite  her. 

"You're  a  wastrel,"  she  said,  "but  isn't  it  nice!" 
And  tasted  the  first  delicious  sip  of  soup. 

"It  is.  For  a  change.  Extravagance  is  good  for  all 
of  us,  now  and  then."  He  glanced  leisurely  about  the 
brilliant  room,  then  out  to  the  street,  bleakly  wind- 
swept. He  leaned  back  and  drummed  a  bit  with  his 
fingers  on  the  satin-smooth  cloth.  "Now  and  then. 
Tell  me,  Fanny,  what  would  you  say,  ofF-hand,  was  the 
most  interesting  thing  you  see  from  here?  You  used 
to  have  a  trick  of  picking  out  what  they  call  the  hu- 
man side.    Your  mother  had  it,  too." 

Fanny,  smiling,  glanced  about  the  room,  her  eyes 
unconsciously  following  the  track  his  had  taken.  About 
the  room,  and  out,  to  the  icy  street.  "The  most  in- 
teresting thing?"  Back  to  the  flower-scented  room, 
with  its  music,  and  tinkle,  and  animation.  Out  again, 
to  the  street.  "You  see  that  man,  standing  at  the  curb, 
across  the  street.  He's  sort  of  crouched  against  the 
lamp  post.  See  him?  Yes,  there,  just  this  side  of 
that  big  gray  car?  He's  all  drawn  up  in  a  heap.  You 
can  feel  him  shivering.  He  looks  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  crawl  inside  himself  for  warmth.  Ever  since  we  came 
in  I've  noticed  him  staring  straight  across  at  these 
windows  where  we're  all  sitting  so  grandly,  lunching. 


FANN"S:  HERSELF  199 

I  know  what  he's  thinking,  don't  you?  And  I  wish  I 
didn't  feel  so  uncomfortable,  knowing  it.  I  wish  we 
hadn't  ordered  lobster  thermidor.  I  wish — there!  the 
policeman's  moving  him  on." 

Father  Fitzpatrick  reached  over  and  took  her  hand, 
as  it  lay  on  the  table,  in  his  great  grasp.  "Fanny,  girl, 
you've  told  me  what  I  wanted  to  know.  Haynes-Cooper 
or  no  Haynes-Cooper,  millions  or  no  millions,  your 
ravines  aren't  choked  up  with  ashes  yet,  my  dear. 
Thank  God.'' 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 

FROM  now  on  Fanny  Brandeis'  life  became  such  a 
swift-moving  thing  that  your  trilogist  would 
have  regarded  her  with  disgust.  Here  was  no  slow 
unfolding,  petal  by  petal.  Here  were  two  processes 
going  on,  side  by  side.  Fanny,  the  woman  of  business, 
flourished  and  throve  like  a  weed,  arrogantly  flaunting 
its  head  above  the  timid,  white  flower  that  lay  close 
to  the  soil,  and  crept,  and  spread,  and  multiplied.  Be- 
tween the  two  the  fight  went  on  silently. 

Fate,  or  Chance,  or  whatever  it  is  that  directs  our 
movements,  was  forever  throwing  tragic  or  comic  little 
life-groups  in  her  path,  and  then,  pointing  an  arrest- 
ing finger  at  her,  implying,  "This  means  you !"  Fanny 
stepped  over  these  obstructions,  or  walked  around 
them,  or  stared  straight  through  them. 

She  had  told  herself  that  she  would  observe  the  first 
anniversary  of  her  mother's  death  with  none  of  those 
ancient  customs  by  which  your  pious  Jew  honors  his 
dead.  There  would  be  no  Yahrzeit  light  burning  for 
twenty-four  hours.  She  would  not  go  to  Temple  for 
Kaddish  prayer.  But  the  thing  was  too  strong  for  her, 
too  anciently  inbred.  Her  ancestors  would  have  lighted 
a  candle,  or  an  oil  lamp.  Fanny,  coming  home  at  six, 
found  herself  turning  on  the  shaded  electric  lamp  in 
her  hall.     She  went  through  to  the  kitchen. 

"Princess,  when  you  come  in  to-morrow  morning 
you'll  find  a  light  in  the  hall.  Don't  turn  it  off  until 
to-morrow  evening  at  six." 

"All  day  long.  Miss  Fan !    Mah  sakes,  wa'  fob?** 

*'It'«  just  a  religious  custom." 


FANNY   HERSELF  201 

"Didn't  know  yo'  had  no  relijin.  Miss  Fan.  Least- 
ways, Ah  nevah  could  figgah " 

"I  haven't,"  said  Fanny,  shortly.  "Dinner  ready 
soon,  Princess?     Fm  starved." 

She  had  entered  a  Jewish  house  of  worship  only 
once  in  this  year.  It  was  the  stately,  white-columned 
edifice  on  Grand  Boulevard  that  housed  the  congrega- 
tion presided  over  by  the  famous  Kirsch.  She  had 
heard  of  him,  naturally.  She  was  there  out  of  curi- 
osity, like  any  other  newcomer  to  Chicago.  The  beauty 
of  the  auditorium  enchanted  her — a  magnificently  pro- 
portioned room,  and  restful  without  being  in  the  least 
gloomy.  Then  she  had  been  interested  in  the  congrega- 
tion  as  it  rustled  in.  She  thought  she  had  never  seen 
so  many  modishly  gowned  women  in  one  room  in  ail  her 
life.  The  men  were  sleekly  broadclothed,  but  they 
lacked  the  well-dressed  air,  somehow.  The  women  were 
slimly  elegant  in  tailor  suits  and  furs.  They  all  looked 
as  if  they  had  been  turned  out  by  the  same  tailor.  An 
artist,  in  his  line,  but  of  limited  imagination.  Dr. 
Kirsch,  sociologist  and  savant,  aquiline,  semi-bald, 
grimly  satiric,  sat  in  his  splendid,  high-backed  chair,, 
surveying  his  silken  flock  through  half-closed  lids.  He 
looked  tired,  and  rather  ill,  Fanny  thought,  but  dis- 
tinctly a  personage.  She  wondered  if  he  held  them  or 
they  him.  That  recalled  to  her  the  little  Winnebago 
Temple  and  Rabbi  Thalmann.  She  remembered  the 
frequent  rudeness  and  open  inattention  of  that  congre- 
gation. No  doubt  Mrs.  Nathan  Pereles  had  her  coun- 
terpart here,  and  the  hypocritical  Bella  Weinberg,  too, 
and  the  giggling  Aarons  girls,  and  old  Ben  Reitman. 
Here  Dr.  Kirsch  had  risen,  and,  coming  forward,  had 
paused  to  lean  over  his  desk  and,  with  an  awful 
geniality,  had  looked  down  upon  two  rustling,  ex- 
quisitely gowned  late-comers.  They  sank  into  their 
seats,  cowed.  Fanny  grinned.  He  began  his  lecture — 
something  about  modern  politics.     Fanny  was  fasci*- 


202  FANNY   HERSELF 

nated  and  resentful  by  turns.  His  brilliant  satire 
probed,  cut,  jabbed  like  a  surgeon's  scalpel;  or  he 
railed,  scolded,  snarled,  like  a  dyspeptic  schoolmaster. 
Often  he  was  in  wretched  taste.  He  mimicked,  pos- 
tured, sneered.  But  he  had  this  millionaire  congrega- 
tion of  his  in  hand.  Fanny  found  herself  smiling  up 
at  him,  delightedly.  Perhaps  this  wasn't  religion,  as 
she  had  been  taught  to  look  upon  it,  but  it  certainly 
was  tonic.     She  told  herself  that  she  would  have  come 

,   to  the  same  conclusion  if  Kirsch  had  occupied  a  Metho- 

I   dist  pulpit. 

;^  There  were  no  Kaddish  prayers  in  Kirsch's  Temple. 
On  the  Friday  following  the  first  anniversary  of  Molly 
Brandeis's  death  Fanny  did  not  go  home  after  working 
hours,  but  took  a  bite  of  supper  in  a  neighborhood 
restaurant.  Then  she  found  her  way  to  one  of  the 
orthodox  Russian  Jewish  synagogues  on  the  west  side. 
It  was  a  dim,  odorous,  bare  little  place,  this  house  of 
worship.  Fanny  had  never  seen  one  like  it  before.  She 
was  herded  up  in  the  gallery,  where  the  women  sat. 
And  when  the  patriarchal  rabbi  began  to  intone  the 
prayer  for  the  dead  Fanny  threw  the  gallery  into  wild 
panic  by  rising  for  it — a  thing  that  no  woman  is  al- 
lowed to  do  in  an  orthodox  Jewish  church.  She  stood, 
calmly,  though  the  beshawled  women  to  right  and  left 
of  her  yanked  at  her  coat. 

In  January  Fanny  discovered  New  York.  She  went 
as  selector  for  her  department.  Hereafter  Slosson 
would  do  only  the  actual  buying.  Styles,  prices,  and 
materials  would  be  decided  by  her.  Ella  Monahan  ac- 
companied her,  it  being  the  time  for  her  monthly  trip. 
Fanny  openly  envied  her  her  knowledge  of  New  York's 
wholesale  district.     Ella  offered  to  help  her. 

"No,"  Fanny  had  replied,  "I  think  not,  thanks. 
You've  your  own  work.  And  besides  I  know  pretty  well 
what  I  want,  and  where  to  go  to  get  it.  It's  making 
them  give  it  to  me  that  will  be  hard." 


fanny;  herself        203 

They  went  to  the  same  hotel,  and  took  connecting 
rooms.  Each  went  her  own  way,  not  seeing  the  other 
from  morning  until  night,  but  they  often  found 
kimonoed  comfort  in  each  other's  presence. 

Fanny  had  spent  weeks  outlining  her  plan  of  attack. 
She  had  determined  to  retain  the  cheap  grades,  but  to 
add  a  finer  line  as  weU.  She  recalled  those  lace-be- 
decked bundles  that  the  farmer  women  and  mill  hands 
had  born  so  tenderly  in  their  arms.  Here  was  one 
direction  in  which  they  allowed  extravagance  free  rein. 
As  a  canny  business  woman,  she  would  trade  on  her  .» 
knowledge  of  their  weakness. 

At  Haynes-Cooper  order  is  never  a  thing  to  be  de- 
spised by  a  wholesaler.  Fanny,  knowing  this,  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  go  straight  to  Horn  &  Udell.  Now, 
Horn  &  Udell  are  responsible  for  the  bloomers  your 
smaU  daughter  wears  under  her  play  frock,  in  place 
of  the  troublesome  and  extravagant  petticoat  of  the 
old  days.  It  was  they  who  introduced  smocked  pina- 
fores to  you;  and  those  modish  patent-leather  belts 
for  children  at  which  your  grandmothers  would  have 
raised  horrified  hands.  They  taught  you  that  an  inch 
of  hand  embroidery  is  worth  a  yard  of  cheap  lace.  And 
as  for  style,  cut,  line — you  can  tell  a  Horn  &  Udell 
child  from  among  a  flock  of  thirty. 

Fanny,  entering  their  office,  felt  much  as  Molly 
Brandeis  had  felt  that  January  many,  many  years  be- 
fore, when  she  had  made  that  first  terrifying  trip  to 
the  Chicago  market.  The  engagement  had  been  made 
days  before.  Fanny  never  knew  the  shock  that  her 
youthfully  expectant  face  gave  old  Sid  Udell.  He 
turned  from  his  desk  to  greet  her,  his  polite  smile  of 
greeting  giving  way  to  a  look  of  bewilderment. 

"But  you  are  not  the  buyer,  are  you.  Miss  Bran- 
deis?" 

"No,  Mr.  Slosson  buys." 

"I  thought  so." 


^     204  FANNY   HERSELF 

"But  I  select  for  my  entire  department.     I  decide 
on  our  styles,  materials,  and  prices,  six  months  in  ad- 
vance.   Then  Mr.  Slosson  does  the  actual  bulk  buying." 
"Something  new-fangled?"  inquired  Sid  Udell.     "Of 
2     ^v     course,  we've  never  sold  much  to   you  people.     Our 

V    ^;    stuff  is " 

^    K.        "Yes,  I  know.     But  you'd  like  to,  wouldn't  you?" 

^v    I     '      "Our  class   of  goods  isn't  exactly  suited  to  your 

?     'k  ''wants." 

;    *>-       "Yes,  it  is.     Exactly.     That's  why  I'm  here.     We'll 

\\     ^   be  doing  a  business  of  a  million  and  a  quarter  in  my 

^  ..^  department  in  another  two  years.     No  firm,  not  even 

^   ^    Horn  &  Udell,  can  afford  to  ignore  an  account  like 

J  '  ^    that." 

J  Sid  Udell  smiled  a  little.     "You've  made  up  your 

^.   %      mind  to  that  million  and  a  quarter,  young  lady  ?" 

r^:-  "Yes." 

.^;.'  "Well,  I've  dealt  with  buyers  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 

i      r     tury  or  more.     And  I'd  say  that  you're  going  to  get 

^     t     it-" 

^  """^         Whereupon  Fanny  began  to  talk.    Ten  minutes  later 

t  ^      Udell  interrupted  her  to  summon  Horn,  whose  domain 

^A    was  the  factory.     Horn  came,  was  introduced,  looked 

I  jS^    doubtful.      Fanny  had   statistics.     Fanny   had  argu- 

''''        -ments.     She  had  determination.     "And  what  we  want," 

-  she  went  on,  in  her  quiet,  assured  way,  "is  style.     The 

Horn  &  Udell  clothes  have  chic.     Now,  material  can't 

be  imitated  successfully,  but  style  can.    Our  goods  lack 

just  that.     I  could  copy  any  model  you  have,  turn  the 

idea  over  to  a  cheap  manufacturer,  and  get  a  million 

j    just  like  it,  at  one-fifth  the  price.     That  isn't  a  threat. 

I    It's   just  a  business  statement  that  you  know  to  be 

true.     I  can  sketch  from  memory  anything  I've  seen 

once.     What  I  want  to  know  is  this :     Will  you  make 

it  necessary  for  me  to  do  that,  or  will  you  undertake 

to  furnish  us  with  cheaper  copies  of  your  high-priced 

designs?     We  could  use  your  entire  output.     I  know 


FANNY   HERSELF  205 

the  small-town  woman  of  the  poorer  class,  and  I  know 
she'll  wear  a  shawl  in  order  to  give  her  child  a  cloth 
coat  with  fancy  buttons  and  a  velvet  collar." 

And  Horn  &  Udell,  whose  attitude  at  first  had  been 
that  of  two  seasoned  business  men  dealing  with  a  preco- 
cious child,  found  themselves  quoting  prices  to  her, 
shipments,  materials,  quality,  quantities.  Then  came 
the  question  of  time. 

''We'll  get  out  a  special  catalogue  for  the  summer," 
Fanny  said.  "A  small  one,  to  start  them  our  way. 
Then  the  big  Fall  catalogue  will  contain  the  entire  line." 

"That  doesn't  give  us  time !"  exclaimed  both  men,  in 
a  breath. 

"But  you  must  manage,  somehow.  Can't  you  speed 
up  the  workroom.^    Put  on  extra  hands?     It's  worth     %    i 

They  might,  under  normal  conditions.     But  there  J>*^ 
was  this  strike-talk,  its  ugly  head  bobbing  up  in  a  hun- 
dred plates.     Aild  their  goods  were  the  kind  that  re- 
quired high-class  workers.     Their  girls  earned  all  the 
way  from  twelve  to  twenty-five  dollars. 

But  Fanny  knew  she  had  driven  home  the  entering 
wedge.  She  left  them  after  making  an  engagement  for 
the  following  day.  The  Horn  &  Udell  factory  was  in 
New  York's  newer  loft-building  section,  around  Madi- 
son, Fifth  avenue,  and  the  Thirties.  Her  hotel  was 
very  near.  She  walked  up  Fifth  avenue  a  little  way, 
and  as  she  walked  she  wondered  why  she  did  not  feel 
more  elated.  Her  day's  work  had  exceeded  her  ex- 
pectations. It  was  a  brilliant  January  afternoon,  with 
a  snap  in  the  air  that  was  almost  western.  Fifth  ave- 
nue flowed  up,  flowed  down,  and  Fanny  fought  the 
impulse  to  stare  after  every  second  or  third  woman  she 
passed.  They  were  so  invariably  well-dressed.  There 
was  none  of  the  occasional  shabbiness  or  dowdiness  of 
Michigan  Avenue.  Every  woman  seemed  to  have 
emerged  fresh  from  the  hands  of  masseuse  and  maid. 


206  FANNY   HERSELF 

Their  hair  was  coiifed  to  suit  the  angle  of  the  hat,  and 
the  hat  had  been  chosen  to  enhance  the  contour  of  the 
head,  and  the  head  was  carried  with  regard  for  the 
dark  furs  that  encircled  the  throat.  They  were  amaz- 
ingly well  shod.  Their  white  gloves  were  white.  (A 
fact  remarkable  to  any  soot-haunted  Chicagoan.) 
Their  coloring  rivaled  the  rose  leaf.  And  nobody's 
nose  was  red.  ' 

"Goodness  knows  I've  never  pretended  to  be  a 
beauty,"  Fanny  said  that  evening,  in  conversation  with 
Ella  Monahan.  "But  I've  always  thought  I  had  my 
good  points.  By  the  time  I'd  reached  Forty-second 
street  I  wouldn't  have  given  two  cents  for  my  chances 
of  winning  a  cave  man  on  a  desert  island." 

She  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  go  back  to  the 
hotel,  get  a  thick  coat,  and  ride  outside  one  of  those 
fascinating  Fifth  avenue  'buses.  It  struck  her  as  an 
ideal  way  to  see  this  amazing  street.  She  was  back  at 
her  hotel  in  ten  minutes.  Ella  had  not  yet  come  in. 
Their  rooms  were  on  the  tenth  floor.  Fanny  got  her 
coat,  peered  at  her  own  reflection  in  the  mirror,  sighed, 
shook  her  head,  and  was  off  down  the  hall  toward  the 
elevators.  The  great  hall  window  looked  toward  Fifth 
avenue,  but  between  it  and  the  avenue  rose  a  yellow- 
brick  building  that  housed  tier  on  tier  of  manufactur- 
ing lofts.  Cloaks,  suits,  blouses,  petticoats,  hats, 
dresses — it  was  just  such  a  building  as  Fanny  had 
come  from  when  she  left  the  offices  of  Horn  &  Udell* 
It  might  be  their  very  building,  for  all  she  knew.  She 
looked  straight  into  its  windows  as  she  stood  waiting 
for  the  lift.  And  window  after  window  showed  women, 
sewing.  They  were  sewing  at  machines,  and  at  hand- 
work, but  not  as  women  are  accustomed  to  sew,  with 
leisurely  stitches,  stopping  to  pat  a  seam  here,  to  run 
a  calculating  eye  along  hem  or  ruffle.  It  was  a  dread- 
ful, mechanical  motion,  that  sewing,  a  machine-like,  re- 
lentless motion,  with  no  waste  in  it,  no  pause.    Fanny'* 


FANNY   HERSELF  207 

mind  leaped  back  to  Winnebago,  with  its  pleasant 
porches  on  which  leisurely  women  sat  stitching  peace- 
fully at  a  fine  seam. 

What  was  it  she  had  said  to  Udell?  **Can't  you 
speed  up  the  workroom?    It's  worth  it." 

Fanny  turned  abruptly  from  the  window  as  the  door 
of  the  bronze  and  mirrored  lift  opened  for  her.  She 
walked  over  to  Fifth  avenue  again  and  up  to  Forty- 
fifth  street.  Then  she  scrambled  up  the  spiral  stairs 
of  a  Washington  Square  'bus.  The  air  was  crisp,  clear, 
intoxicating.  To  her  Chicago  eyes  the  buildings,  the 
streets,  the  very  sky  looked  startlingly  fresh  and  new- 
washed.  As  the  'bus  lurched  down  Fifth  avenue  she 
leaned  over  the  raihng  to  stare,  fascinated,  at  the  col- 
orful, shifting,  brilhant  panorama  of  the  most  amazing 
street  in  the  world.  Block  after  block,  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see,  the  gorgeous  procession  moved  up,  moved 
down,  and  the  great,  gleaming  motor  cars  crept,  and 
crawled,  and  writhed  in  and  out,  like  nothing  so  much 
as  swollen  angle  worms  in  a  fishing  can,  Fanny 
thought.  Her  eye  was  caught  by  one  limousine  that 
stood  out,  even  in  that  crush  of  magnificence.  It  was 
all  black,  as  though  scorning  to  attract  the  eye  with 
vulgar  color,  and  it  was  lined  with  white.  Fanny 
thought  it  looked  very  much  like  Siegel  &  Cowan's 
hearse,  back  in  Winnebago.  In  it  sat  a  woman,  all 
furs,  and  orchids,  and  complexion.  She  was  holding 
up  to  the  window  a  little  dog  with  a  wrinkled  and  weary 
face,  like  that  of  an  old,  old  man.  He  was  sticking  his 
little  evil,  eager  red  tongue  out  at  the  world.  And  he 
wore  a  very  smart  and  woolly  white  sweater,  of  the  im- 
ported kind — with  a  monogram  done  in  black. 

The  traffic  policeman  put  up  his  hand.  The  'bus 
rumbled  on  down  the  street.  Names  that  had  always 
been  remotely  mythical  to  her  now  met  her  eye  and 
became  realities.  Maillard's.  And  that  great  red  stone 
castle  was  the  Waldorf.    Almost  historic,  and  it  looked 


208  FANNY   HERSELF 

newer  than  the  smoke-grimed  Blackstone.  And 
straight  ahead — why,  that  must  be  the  Flatiron  build- 
ing! It  loomed  up  like  the  giant  prow  of  an  unim- 
aginable ship.  Brentano's.  The  Holland  House. 
Madison  Square.  Why  there  never  was  anything  so 
terrifying,  and  beautiful,  and  palpitating,  and  ex- 
quisite as  this  Fifth  avenue  in  the  late  winter  after- 
noon, with  the  sky  ahead  a  rosy  mist,  and  the  golden 
lights  just  beginning  to  spangle  the  gray.  At  Madison 
Square  she  decided  to  walk.  She  negotiated  the  'bus 
steps  with  surprising  skill  for  a  novice,  and  scurried 
along  the  perilous  crossing  to  the  opposite  side.  She 
entered  Madison  Square.  But  why  hadn't  O.  Henry 
emphasized  its  beauty,  instead  of  its  squalor?  It  lay, 
a  purple  pool  of  shadow,  surrounded  by  the  great, 
gleaming,  many-windowed  office  buildings,  like  an  ame- 
thyst sunk  in  a  circle  of  diamonds.  "It's  a  fairyland !" 
Panny  told  herself.  "Who'd  have  thought  a  city  could 
be  so  beautiful!" 

And  then,  at  her  elbow,  a  voice  said,  "Oh,  lady,  for 
the  lova  God!"  She  turned  with  a  jerk  and  looked  up 
into  the  unshaven  face  of  a  great,  blue-eyed  giant  who 
pulled  off  his  cap  and  stood  twisting  it  in  his  swollen 
blue  fingers.  '*Lady,  I'm  cold.  I'm  hungry.  I  been 
sittin'  here  hours." 

Fanny  clutched  her  bag  a  little  fearfully.  She 
looked  at  his  huge  frame.     "Why  don't  you  work?" 

"Work!"  He  laughed.  "There  ain't  any.  Looka 
this !"  He  turned  up  his  foot,  and  you  saw  the  bare 
sole,  blackened  and  horrible,  and  fringed,  comically, 
by  the  tattered  leather  upper. 

"Oh — my  dear !"  said  Fanny.  And  at  that  the  man 
began  to  cry,  weakly,  sickeningly,  like  a  little  boy. 

"Don't  do  that !  Don't !  Here."  She  was  emptying 
her  purse,  and  something  inside  her  was  saying,  "You 
fool,  he's  only  a  professional  beggar." 

And  then  the  man  wiped  his  face  with  his  cap,  and 


FANNY   HERSELF  209 

swallowed  hard,  and  said,  "I  don't  want  all  you  got.  I 
ain't  holdin'  you  up.  Just  gimme  that.  I  been  sittin' 
here,  on  that  bench,  lookin'  at  that  sign  across  the 
street.  Over  there.  It  says,  *EAT.'  It  goes  off  an' 
on.     Seemed  like  it  was  drivin'  me  crazy." 

Fanny  thrust  a  crumpled  five-dollar  bill  into  his 
hand.  And  was  off.  She  fairly  flew  along,  so  that  it 
was  not  until  she  had  reached  Thirty-third  street  that 
she  said  aloud,  as  was  her  way  when  moved,  "I  don't 
care.  Don't  blame  me.  It  was  that  miserable  little 
beast  of  a  dog  in  the  white  sweater  that  did  it." 

It  was  almost  seven  when  she  reached  her  room.  A 
maid,  in  neat  black  and  white,  was  just  coming  out 
with  an  armful  of  towels. 

**I  just  brought  you  a  couple  of  extra  towels.  We 
were  short  this  morning,"  she  said. 

The  room  was  warm,  and  quiet,  and  bright.  In  her 
bathroom,  that  glistened  with  blue  and  white  tiling, 
were  those  redundant  towels.  Fanny  stood  in  the  door- 
way and  counted  them,  whimsically.  Four  great  fuzzy 
bath  towels.  Eight  glistening  hand  towels.  A  blue  and 
white  bath  rug  hung  at  the  side  of  the  tub.  Her  tele- 
phone rang.     It  was  Ella. 

"Where  in  the  world  have  you  been,  child?  I  was 
Worried  about  you.  I  thought  you  were  lost  in  the 
streets  of  New  York." 

"I  took  a  'bus  ride,"  Fanny  explained. 

''See  anything  of  New  York?" 

"I  saw  all  of  it,"  replied  Fanny.  EUa  laughed  at 
that,  but  Fanny's  face  was  serious. 

"How  did  you  make  out  at  Horn  &  Udell's?  Never 
mind,  I'm  coming  in  for  a  minute;  can  I?" 

"Please  do.     I  need  you." 

A  moment  later  Ella  bounced  in,  fresh  as  to  blouse, 
pink  as  to  cheeks,  her  whole  appearance  a  testimony 
to  the  revivifying  effects  of  a  warm  bath,  a  brief  nap, 
clean  clothes. 


210  PANNY   HERSELF 

"Dear  child,  you  look  tired.  I'm  not  going  to  stay. 
You  get  dressed  and  I'll  meet  you  for  dinner.  Or  do 
you  want  yours  up  here?" 

«0h,  no!" 

"  'Phone  me  when  you're  dressed.  But  tell  me,  isn't 
it  a  wonder,  this  town?  I'll  never  forget  my  first  trip 
here.  I  spent  one  whole  evening  standing  in  front  of 
the  mirror  trying  to  make  those  little  spit-curls  the 
women  were  wearing  then.  I'd  seen  'em  on  Fifth  ave- 
nue, and  it  seemed  I'd  die  if  I  couldn't  have  'em,  too. 
And  I  dabbed  on  rouge,  and  touched  up  my  eyebrows. 
I  don't  know.  It's  a  kind  of  a  crazy  feeling  gets  you. 
I;  The  minute  I  got  on  the  train  for  Chicago  I  washed  my 
V"  face  and  took  my  hair  down  and  did  it  plain  again." 
jjf>^  ^  "Why,  that's  the  way  I  felt!"  laughed  Fanny.  «I 
D  i'  .  didn't  care  anything  about  infants'  wear,  or  Haynes- 
ifc  I  ^^®P^r>  ^^  anything.  I  just  wanted  to  be  beautiful, 
^         'as  they  all  were." 

"Sure!    It  gets  us  all!" 
^.  Fanny    twisted   her   hair    into   the    relentless    knob 

women  assume  preparatory  to  bathing.  "It  seems  to 
me  you  have  to  come  from  Winnebago,  or  thereabouts, 
to  get  New  York — really  get  it,  I  mean." 

"That's  so,"  agreed  Ella.  "There's  a  man  on  the 
New  York  Star  who  writes  a  column  every  day  that 
everybody  reads.  If  he  isn't  a  small-town  man  then 
we're  both  wrong." 

Fanny,  bathward  bound,  turned  to  stare  at  Ella. 
"A  column  about  what?" 

"Oh,  everything.  New  York,  mostly.  Say,,  it's  the 
humanest  stuff.  He  says  the  kind  of  thing  we'd  all  say, 
if  we  knew  how.  Reading  him  is  like  getting  a  letter 
from  home.  I'll  bet  he  went  to  a  country  school  and 
wore  his  mittens  sewed  to  a  piece  of  tape  that  ran 
through  his  coat  sleeves." 

"You're  right,"  said  Fanny;  "he  did.  That  man's 
from  Winnebago,  Wisconsin." 


FANNIC   HERSELF     ,       211 

"No!"  ' 

"Yes.^ 

"Do  you  mean  you  know  him?  Honestly?  What's 
he  like?" 

But  Fanny  had  vanished.  "I'm  a  tired  business 
woman,"  she  called,  above  the  splashing  that  followed, 
"and  I  won't  converse  until  I'm  fed." 

"But  how  about  Horn  &  Udell?"  demanded  Ella,  her 
mouth  against  the  crack. 

"Practically  mine,"  boasted  Fanny. 

"You  mean — landed !" 

"Well,  hooked,  at  any  rate,  and  putting  up  a  very 
poor  struggle." 

"Why,  you  clever  little  divil,  you !  You'U  be  making 
me  look  like  a  stock  girl  next." 

Fanny  did  not  telephone  Heyl  until  the  day  she  left 
New  York.  She  had  told  herself  she  would  not  tele- 
phone him  at  all.  He  had  sent  her  his  New  York  ad- 
dress and  telephone  number  months  before,  after  that 
Sunday  at  the  dunes.  Ella  Monahan  had  finished  her 
work  and  had  gone  back  to  Chicago  four  days  before 
Fanny  was  ready  to  leave.  In  those  four  days  Fanny 
had  scoured  the  city  from  the  Palisades  to  Pell  street.  I 
don't  know  how  she  found  her  way  about.  It  was  a 
sort  of  instinct  with  her.  She  seemed  to  scent  the  pic- 
turesque. She  never  for  a  moment  neglected  her  work. 
I  But  she  had  found  it  was  often  impossible  to  see  these 
New  York  business  men  until  ten — sometimes  eleven — 
o'clock.  She  awoke  at  seven,  a  habit  formed  in  her 
Winnebago  days.  Eight-thirty  one  morning  found  her 
staring  up  at  the  dim  vastness  of  the  dome  of  the  ca- 
thedral of  St.  John  the  Divine.  The  great  gray  pile, 
mountainous,  almost  ominous,  looms  up  in  the  midst  of 
the  dingy  commonplaceness  of  Amsterdam  avenue  and 
110th  street.  New  Yorkers  do  not  know  this,  or  if 
they  know  it,  the  fact  does  not  interest  them.  New 
.Yorkers  do  not  go  to  stare  up  into  the  murky  shadows 


212  FANNY   HERSELF 

of  this  glorious  edifice.  They  would  if  it  were  situate 
in  Rome.  Bare,  crude,  unfinished,  chaotic,  it  gives  rich 
promise  of  magnificent  fulfillment.  In  an  age  when 
great  structures  are  thrown  up  to-day,  to  be  torn  down 
to-morrow,  this  slow-moving  giant  is  at  once  a  re- 
proach and  an  example.  Twenty-five  years  in  building, 
twenty-five  more  for  completion,  it  has  elbowed  its  way, 
stone  by  stone,  into  such  company  as  St.  Peter's  at 
Rome,  and  the  marvel  at  Milan.  Fanny  found  her  way 
down  the  crude  cinder  paths  that  made  an  alley-like 
approach  to  the  cathedral.  She  entered  at  the  side 
door  that  one  found  by  following  arrows  posted  on  the 
rough  wooden  fence.  Once  inside  she  stood  a  moment, 
awed  by  the  immensity  of  the  half-finished  nave.  A« 
she  stood  there,  hands  clasped,  her  face  turned  raptly 
up  to  where  the  massive  granite  columns  reared  their 
height  to  frame  the  choir,  she  was,  for  the  moment, 
as  devout  as  any  Episcopalian  whose  money  had  helped 
make  the  great  building.  Not  only  devout,  but  prayer- 
ful, ecstatic.  That  was  partly  due  to  the  effect  of  the 
pillars,  the  lights,  the  tapestries,  the  great,  unfinished 
chunks  of  stone  that  loomed  out  from  the  side  walls, 
and  the  purple  shadow  cast  by  the  window  above  the 
chapels  at  the  far  end ;  and  partly  to  the  actress  in  her 
that  responded  magically  to  any  mood,  and  always  to 
surroundings.  Later  she  walked  softly  down  the  de- 
serted nave,  past  the  choir,  to  the  cluster  of  chapels, 
set  like  gems  at  one  end,  and  running  from  north  to 
south,  in  a  semi-circle.  A  placard  outside  one  said, 
**St.  Saviour's  chapel.  For  those  who  wish  to  rest 
and  pray."  All  white  marble,  this  little  nook,  gleam- 
ing softly  in  the  gray  half-light.  Fanny  entered,  and 
sat  down.  She  was  quite  alone.  The  roar  and  crash 
of  the  Eighth  avenue  L,  the  Amsterdam  cars,  the  mo- 
tors drumming  up  Momingside  hill,  were  softened  here 
to  a  soothing  hum. 

For  those  who  wish  to  rest  and  pray. 


FANNY   HERSELF  213 

Fanny  Brandeis  had  neither  rested  nor  prayed  since 
that  hideous  day  when  she  had  hurled  her  prayer  of 
defiance  at  Him.  But  something  within  her  now  be- 
gan a  groping  for  words ;  for  words  that  should  follow 

an  ancient  plea  beginning,  "O  God  of  my  Fathers " 

But  at  that  the  picture  of  the  room  came  back  to  her 
mental  vision — ^the  room  so  quiet  except  for  the  breath- 
ing of  the  woman  on  the  bed ;  the  woman  with  the  toler- 
ant, humorous  mouth,  and  the  straight,  clever  nose, 
and  the  softly  bright  brown  eyes,  all  so  strangely 
pinched  and  shrunken-looking  now 

Fanny  got  to4her  feet,  with  a  noisy  scraping  of  the 
chair  on  the  stone  floor.  The  vague,  half-formed  prayeif 
died  at  birth.  She  found  her  way  out  of  the  dim, 
quiet  little  chapel,  up  the  long  aisle  and  out  the  great 
door.  She  shivered  a  little  in  the  cold  of  the  early 
January  morning  as  she  hurried  toward  the  Broadway 
subway. 

At  nine-thirty  she  was  standing  at  a  counter  in  the 
infants'  wear  section  at  Best's,  making  mental  notes 
while  the  unsuspecting  saleswoman  showed  her  how  the 
pink  ribbon  in  this  year's  models  was  brought  under 
the  beading,  French  fashion,  instead  of  weaving 
through  it,  as  heretofore.  At  ten-thirty  she  was  saying 
to  Sid  Udell,  "I  think  a  written  contract  is  always  best. 
Then  we'll  all  know  just  where  we  stand.  Mr.  Fenger 
will  be  on  next  week  to  arrange  the  details,  but  just 
now  a  very  brief  written  understanding  to  show  him 
on  my  return  would  do." 

And  she  got  it,  and  tucked  it  away  in  her  bag,  in 
triumph. 

She  tried  to  leave  New  York  without  talking  to 
Heyl,  but  some  quiet,  insistent  force  impelled  her  to 
act  contrary  to  her  resolution.  It  was,  after  all,  the 
urge  of  the  stronger  wish  against  the  weaker. 

When  he  heard  her  voice  over  the  telephone  Heyl  did 
not  say,  "Who  is  this.?"   Neither  did  he  put  those  in* 


214  FANNY   HERSELF 

evitable  questions  of  the  dweller  to  the  transient, 
"Where  are  you?  How  long  have  you  been  here?" 
What  he  said  was,  **How're  you  going  to  avoid  dining 
with  me  to-night?" 

To  which  Fanny  replied,  promptly,  "By  taking  the 
Twentieth  Century  back  to  Chicago  to-day." 

A  little  silence.  A  hurt  silence.  Then,  "When  they 
get  the  Twentieth  Century  habit  they're  as  good  as 
lost.    How's  the  infants'  wear  business,  Fanny?" 

"Booming,  thank  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  I've  read 
the  column  every  day.     It's  wonderful  stuff." 

"It's  a  wonderful  job.  I'm  a  lucky  boy.  I'm  doing 
the  thing  I'd  rather  do  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
There  are  mighty  few  who  can  say  that."  There  was 
another  silence,  awkward,  heavy.  Then,  "Fanny,  you're 
not  really  leaving  to-day?" 

"I'll  be  in  Chicago  to-morrow,  barring  wrecks." 

"You  might  have  let  me  show  you  our  more  or  less 
fair  city." 

"I've  shown  it  to  myself.  I've  seen  Riverside  Drive 
at  sunset,  and  at  night.  That  alone  would  have  been 
enough.  But  I've  seen  Fulton  market,  too,  and  the 
Grand  street  stalls,  and  Washington  Square,  and  Cen- 
tral Park,  and  Lady  Duff-Gordon's  inner  showroom, 
and  the  Night  Court,  and  the  Grand  Central  subway 
horror  at  six  p.  m.,  and  the  gambling  on  the  Curb,  and 

the  bench  sleepers  in  Madison  Square Oh,  Clancy, 

the  misery " 

"Heh,  wait  a  minute!    All  this,  alone?" 

"Yes.  And  one  more  thing.  I've  landed  Horn  Si 
Udell,  which  means  nothing  to  you,  but  to  me  it  means 
that  by  Spring  my  department  will  be  a  credit  to  its 
stepmother;  a  real  success." 

"I  knew  it  would  be  a  success.  So  did  you.  Any- 
thing you  might  attempt  would  be  successful.  You'd 
have  made  a  successful  lawyer,  or  cook,  or  actress,  or 
hydraulic  engineer,  because  you  couldn't  do  a  thing 


FANNY   HERSELF  215 

badly.  It  isn't  in  you.  You're  a  superlative  sort  of 
person.  But  that's  no  reason  for  being  any  of  those 
things.  If  you  won't  admit  a  debt  to  humanity,  surely 
you'll  acknowledge  you've  an  obligation  to  your- 
self." 

^'Preaching  again.     Good-by." 

*'Fanny,  you're  afraid  to  see  me." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous.    Why  should  I  be?" 

"Because  I  say  aloud  the  things  you  daren't  let 
yourself  think.  If  I  were  to  promise  not  to  talk  about 
anything  but  flannel  bands " 

"Will  you  promise?" 

**No.  But  I'm  going  to  meet  you  at  the  clock  at  the 
Grand  Central  Station  fifteen  minutes  before  train 
time.  I  don't  care  if  every  infants'  wear  manufacturer 
in  New  York  had  a  prior  claim  on  your  time.  You 
may  as  well  be  there,  because  if  you're  not  I'll  get  on 
the  train  and  stay  on  as  far  as  Albany.  Take  your 
choice." 

He  was  there  before  her.  Fanny,  following  the  wake 
of  a  redcap,  picked  him  at  once  from  among  the  crowd 
of  clock-waiters.  He  saw  her  at  the  same  time,  and 
started  forward  with  that  singularly  lithe,  springy  step 
which  was,  after  all,  just  the  result  of  perfectly  trained 
muscles  in  coordination.  He  was  wearing  New  York 
clothes — the  right  kind,  Fanny  noted. 

Their  hands  met.  "How  well  you  look,"  said  Fanny, 
rather  lamely. 

"It's  the  clothes,"  said  Heyl,  and  began  to  revolve 
slowly,  coyly,  hands  out,  palms  down,  eyelids  droop- 
ing, in  delicious  imitation  of  those  ladies  whose  busi- 
ness it  is  to  revolve  thus  for  fashion. 

"Clancy,  you  idiot !    All  these  people !    Stop  it !" 

"But  get  the  grace!  Get  the  easy  English  hang, 
at  once  so  loose  and  so  clinging." 

Fanny  grinned,  appreciatively,  and  led  the  way 
through  the  gate  to  the  train.     She  was  surprisingly 


216  FANNY   HERSELF 

glad  to  be  with  him  again.  On  discovering  that,  she 
began  to  talk  rapidly,  and  about  him. 

"Tell  me,  how  do  you  manage  to  keep  that  fresh 
viewpoint?  Everybody  else  who  comes  to  New  York  to 
write  loses  his  identity.  The  city  swallows  him  up.  I 
mean  by  that,  that  things  seem  to  strike  you  as  freshly 
as  they  did  when  you  first  came.  I  remember  you 
.  wrote  me  an  amazing  letter." 

"For  one  thing,  I'll  never  be  anything  but  a  for- 
eigner in  New  York.  I'll  never  quite  believe  Broadway. 
I'll  never  cease  to  marvel  at  Fifth  avenue,  and  Cooper 
Union,  and  the  Bronx.  The  time  may  come  when  I 
can  take  the  subway  for  granted,  but  don't  ask  it  of  me 
just  yet." 

"But  the  other  writers — and  all  those  people  who 
live  down  in  Washington  Square?" 

"I  never  see  them.  It's  sure  death.  Those  Green- 
wichers  are  always  taking  out  their  own  feelings  and 
analyzing  them,  and  pawing  them  over,  and  passing 
them  around.  When  they  get  through  with  them 
they're  so  thumb-marked  and  greasy  that  no  one  else 
wants  them.  They  don't  get  enough  golf,  those  Green- 
wichers.  They  don't  get  enough  tennis.  They  don't 
get  enough  walking  in  the  open  places.  Gosh,  no!  I 
know  better  than  to  fall  for  that  kind  of  thing.  They 
spend  hours  talking  to  each  other,  in  dim-lighted  at- 
tics, about  Souls,  and  Society,  and  the  Joy  of  Life, 
and  the  Greater  Good.  And  they  know  all  about  each 
other's  insides.  They  talk  themselves  out,  and  there's 
nothing  left  to  write  about.  A  little  of  that  kind  of 
thing  purges  and  cleanses.  Too  much  of  it  poisons,  and 
clogs.  No,  ma'am!  When  I  want  to  talk  I  go  down 
and  chin  with  the  foreman  of  our  composing  room. 
There's  a  chap  that  has  what  I  call  conversation.  A 
philosopher,  and  knows  everything  in  the  world.  Com- 
posing room  foremen  always  are  and  do.  Now,  that's 
all    of    that.      How    about    Fanny    Brandeis?      Any 


FANNY   HERSELF  217 

sketches  ?    Come  on.    Confess.    Grand  street,  anyway.'* 

"I  haven't  touched  a  pencil,  except  to  add  up  a  col- 
umn of  figures  or  copy  an  order,  since  last  September, 
^  when  you  were  so  sure  I  couldn't  stop." 

"You've  done  a  thousand  in  your  head.  And  if  you 
haven't  done  one  on  paper  so  much  the  better.  You'll 
jam  them  back,  and  stifle  them,  and  screw  the  cover 
down  tight  on  every  natural  impulse,  and  then,  some 
day,  the  cover  will  blow  off  with  a  loud  report.  You 
can't  kill  that  kind  of  thing,  Fanny.  It  would  have  to 
be  a  wholesale  massacre  of  all  the  centuries  behind  you., 
I  don't  so  much  mind  your  being  disloyal  to  your  tribe, 
or  race,  or  whatever  you  want  to  call  it.  But  you've 
turned  your  back  on  yourself ;  you've  got  an  obligation 
to  humanity,  and  I'll  nag  you  till  you  pay  it.  I  don't 
care  if  I  lose  you,  so  long  as  you  find  yourself.  The 
thing  you've  got  isn't  merely  racial.  God,  no!  It's 
universal.  And  you  owe  it  to  the  world.  Pay  up, 
Fanny!     Pay  up!" 

"Look  here !"  began  Fanny,  her  voice  low  with  anger ; 
"the  last  time  I  saw  you  I  said  I'd  never  again  put  my- 
self in  a  position  to  be  lectured  by  you,  like  a  school- 
girl. I  mean  it,  this  time.  If  you  have  anything  else 
to  say  to  me,  say  it  now.  The  train  leaves" — she 
glanced  at  her  wrist — "in  two  minutes,  thank  Heaven, 
and  this  will  be  your  last  chance." 

"All  right,"  said  Heyl.  "I  have  got  something  to 
say.     Do  you  wear  hatpins?" 

"Hatpins !"  blankly.  "Not  with  this  small  hat,  but 
what " 

"That  means  you're  defenseless.  If  you're  going  to 
prowl  the  streets  of  Chicago  alone  get  this:  If  you 
double  your  fist  this  way,  and  tuck  your  thumb  along- 
side, like  that,  and  aim  for  this  spot  right  here,  about 
two  inches  this  side  of  the  chin,  bringing  your  arm 
back,  and  up,  quickly,  like  a  piston,  the  person  you 
hit  will  go  down,  limp.    There's  a  nerve  right  here  that 


218  FANNY   HERSELF 

communicates  with  the  brain.  That  blow  makes  you 
see  stars,  bright  lights,  and  fancy  colors.  They  use 
it  in  the  comic  papers." 

"You  are  crazy,"  said  Fanny,  as  though  at  last  as- 
sured of  a  long-suspected  truth.  The  train  began  to 
move,  almost  imperceptibly.     "Run!"  she  cried. 

Heyl  sped  up  the  aisle.  At  the  door  he  turned.  "It's 
called  an  uppercut,"  he  shouted  to  the  amazement  of 
the  other  passengers.    And  leaped  from  the  train. 

Fanny  sank  into  her  seat,  weakly.  Then  she  began 
to  laugh,  and  there  was  a  dash  of  hysteria  in  it.  He 
had  left  a  paper  on  the  car  seat.  It  was  the  Star. 
Fanny  crumpled  it,  childishly,  and  kicked  it  under  the 
seat.  She  took  off  her  hat,  arranged  her  belongings, 
and  sat  back  with  eyes  closed.  After  a  few  moments 
she  opened  them,  fished  about  under  the  seat  for  the 
crumpled  copy  of  the  Star,  and  read  it,  turning  at 
once  to  his  column.  She  thought  it  was  a  very  unpre- 
tentious thing,  that  column,  and  yet  so  full  of  insight, 
and  sagacity,  and  whimsical  humor.  Not  a  guffaw  in 
it,  but  a  smile  in  every  fifth  line.  She  wondered  if 
those  years  of  illness,  and  loneliness,  with  weeks  of 
reading,  and  tramping,  and  climbing  in  the  Colorado 
mountains  had  kept  him  strangely  young,  or  made  him 
strangely  old. 

She  welcomed  the  hours  that  lay  between  New  York 
and  Chicago.  They  would  give  her  an  opportunity  to 
digest  the  events  of  the  past  ten  days.  In  her  syste- 
matic mind  she  began  to  range  them  in  the  order  of 
their  importance.  Horn  &  Udell  came  first,  of  course, 
and  then  the  line  of  maternjty  dresses  she  had  selected 
to  take  the  place  of  the  hideous  models  carried  under 
Slosson's  regime.  And  then  the  slip-over  pinafores. 
But  somehow  her  thoughts  became  jumbled  here,  so 
that  faces  instead  of  garments  filled  her  mind's  eye. 
Again  and  again  there  swam  into  her  ken  the  face  of 
that  woman  of  fifty,  in  decent  widow's  weeds,  who  had 


fanny:  herself        219 

stood  there  in  the  Night  Court,  charged  with  drunken- 
ness on  the  streets.  And  the  man  with  the  frost-bitten 
fingers  in  Madison  Square.  And  the  dog  in  the  sweater. 
And  the  feverish  concentration  of  the  piece-work  sew- 
ers in  the  window  of  the  loft  building. 

She  gave  it  up,  selected  a  magazine,  and  decided  to 
go  in  to  lunch. 

There  was  nothing  spectacular  about  the  welcome 
she  got  on  her  return  to  the  office  after  this  first  trip. 
A  firm  that  counts  its  employees  by  the  thousands,  and  \ 
its  profits  in  tens  of  millions,  cannot  be  expected  to  " 
draw  up  formal  resolutions  of  thanks  when  a  hereto- 
fore flabby  department  begins  to  show  signs  of  red 
blood. 

Ella  Monahan  said,  "They'll  make  light  of  it — all 
but  Fenger.     That's  their  way." 

Slosson  drummed  with  his  fingers  all  the  time  she 
was  giving  him  the  result  of  her  work  in  terms  of  style, 
material,  quantity,  time,  and  price.  When  she  had 
finished  he  said,  "Well,  all  I  can  say  is  we  seem  to  be 
going  out  of  the  mail  order  business  and  into  the  im- 
ported novelty  line,  de  luxe.  I  suppose  by  next  Christ- 
mas the  grocery  department  will  be  putting  in  arti- 
choke hearts,  and  truffles  and  French  champagne  by 
the  keg  for  community  orders." 

To  which  Fanny  had  returned,  sweetly,  "If  Oregon 
and  Wyoming  show  any  desire  for  artichokes  and  cham- 
pagne I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't." 

Fenger,  strangely  enough,  said  little.  He  was  apt  to 
be  rather  curt  these  days,  and  almost  irritable.  Fanny 
attributed  it  to  the  reaction  following  the  strain  of  the 
Christmas  rush. 

One  did  not  approach  Fenger's  office  except  by  ap- 
pointment. Fanny  sent  word  to  him  of  her  return. 
For  two  days  she  heard  nothing  from  him.  Then  the 
voice  of  the  snuff-brown  secretary  summoned  her.  She 
did  not  have  to  wait  this  time,  but  passed  directly 


220  FANNY   HERSELF 

through  the  big  bright  outer  room  into  the  smaller 
room.     The  Power  House,  Fanny  called  it. 

Fenger  was  facing  the  door.     "Missed  you,"  he  said. 

"You  must  have,"  Fanny  laughed,  "with  only  nine 
thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  to  look  after." 

"You  look  as  if  you'd  been  on  a  vacation,  instead  of 
a  test  trip." 

"So  I  have.  Why  didn't  you  warn  me  that  busi- 
ness, as  transacted  in  New  York,  is  a  series  of  social 
rites?  I  didn't  have  enough  white  kid  gloves  to  go 
round.  No  one  will  talk  business  in  an  office.  I  don't 
see  what  they  use  offices  for,  except  as  places  in  which 
to  receive  their  mail.  You  utter  the  word  'Business,' 
and  the  other  person  immediately  says,  'Lunch.'  No 
wholesaler  seems  able  to  quote  you  his  prices  until  he 
has  been  sustained  by  half  a  dozen  Cape  Cods.  I  don't 
want  to  see  a  restaurant  or  a  rose  silk  shade  for 
weeks." 

Fenger  tapped  the  little  pile  of  papers  on  his  desk. 
"I've  read  your  reports.  If  you  can  do  that  on 
lunches,  I'd  like  to  see  what  you  could  put  over  in  a 
series  of  dinners." 

"Heaven  forbid,"  said  Fanny,  fervently.  Then,  for 
a  very  concentrated  fifteen  minutes  they  went  over  the 
reports  together.  Fanny's  voice  grew  dry  and  lifeless 
as  she  went  into  figures, 

"You  don't  sound  particularly  enthusiastic,"  Fen- 
ger said,  when  they  had  finished,  "considering  that 
you've  accomplished  what  you  set  out  to  do." 

"That's  just  it,"  quickly.  "I  like  the  uncertainty. 
It  was  interesting  to  deal  directly  with  those  people, 
to  stack  one's  arguments,  and  personality,  and  men- 
tality and  power  over  theirs,  until  they  had  to  give 
way.  But  after  that !  Well,  you  can't  expect  me  to  be 
vitally  interested  in  gross  lots,  and  carloads  and 
dating." 

"It's  part  of  business." 


FANNY   HERSELF  221 

"It's  the  part  I  hate.'^ 

Fenger  stacked  the  papers  neatly.  "You  came  in 
June,  didn't  jou?" 

"Yes." 

"It  has  been  a  remarkable  eight-months'  record,  even 
at  Haynes-Cooper's,  where  records  are  the  rule.  Have 
you  been  through  the  plant  since  the  time  you  first 
went  through.?" 

"Through  it !    Goodness,  no !    It  would  take  a  day." 

"Then  I  wish  you'd  take  it.  I  like  to  have  the  heads 
of  departments  go  through  the  plant  at  least  twice  a 
year.  You'll  find  the  fourteenth  floor  has  been  cleared 
and  is  being  used  entirely  by  the  selectors.  The  manu- 
facturers' samples  are  spread  on  the  tables  in  the  vari- 
ous sections.  You'll  find  your  place  ready  for  you. 
You'll  be  amused  at  Daly's  section.  He  took  your  sug- 
gestion about  trying  the  blouses  on  live  models  instead 
of  selecting  them  as  he  used  to.  You  remember  you 
said  that  one  could  tell  about  the  lines  and  style  of  a 
dress  merely  by  looking  at  it,  but  that  a  blouse  is  just 
a  limp  rag  until  it's  on." 

"It's  true  of  the  flimsy  Georgette  things  women  want 
now.  They  may  be  lovely  in  the  box  and  hideously  un- 
becoming when  worn.  If  Daly's  going  in  for  the  higher 
grade  stuff  he  can't  risk  choosing  unbecoming  models." 

"Wait  till  you  see  him !"  smiled  Fenger,  "sitting  there 
like  a  sultan  while  the  pinks  and  blues,  and  whites  and 
plaids  parade  before  him."  He  turned  to  his  desk 
again.  "That's  all.  Miss  Brandeis.  Thank  you." 
Then,  at  a  sudden  thought.  "Do  you  know  that  all 
your  suggestions  have  been  human  suggestions  ?  I  mean 
they  all  have  had  to  do  with  people.  Tell  me,  how  do 
you  happen  to  have  learned  so  much  about  what  peo- 
ple feel  and  think,  in  such  a  short  time?" 

The  thing  that  Clarence  Heyl  had  said  flashed 
through  her  mind,  and  she  was  startled  to  find  herself 
quoting  it.     "It  hasn't  been  a  short  time,"  she  said. 


'^J^222  FANNY   HERSELF 

Jh"  /     "It  took  a  thousand  years."    And  left  Fenger  staring, 
puzzled. 

She  took  next  morning  for  her  tour  of  the  plant  as 
Fenger  had  suggested.  She  went  through  it,  not  as  the 
startled,  wide-eyed  girl  of  eight  months  before  had 
gone,  but  critically,  and  with  a  little  unconscious  air 
of  authority.  For,  this  organization,  vast  though  it 
was,  actually  showed  her  imprint.  She  could  have  put  ^ 
her  finger  on  this  spot,  and  that,  saying,  "Here  is  the 
mark  of  my  personality."  And  she  thought,  as  she 
passed  from  department  to  department,  "Ten  thousand 
a  year,  if  you  keep  on  as  you've  started."  Up  one  aisle 
and  down  the  next.  Bundles,  bundles,  bundles.  And 
ever3rwhere  you  saw  the  yellow  order-slips.  In  the 
hands  of  the  stock  boys  whizzing  by  on  roller  skates; 
in  the  filing  department ;  in  the  traffic  department.  The 
very  air  seemed  jaundiced  with  those  clouds  of  yellow 
order-slips.  She  stopped  a  moment,  fascinated  as  al- 
ways before  the  main  spiral  gravity  chute  down  which 
the  bundles — hundreds  of  them,  thousands  of  them  daily 
— chased  each  other  to — to  what?  Fanny  asked  her- 
self. She  knew,  vaguely,  that  hands  caught  these  bun- 
dles halfway,  and  redirected  them  toward  the  proper 
channel,  where  they  were  assembled  and  made  ready 
for  shipping  or  mailing.     She  turned  to  a  stock  boy. 

"Where  does  this  empty?"  she  asked. 

"Floor  below,"  said  the  boy,  "on  the  platform." 

Fanny  walked  down  a  flight  of  iron  stairs,  and 
around  to  face  the  spiral  chute  again.  In  front  of 
the  chute,  and  connected  with  it  by  a  great  metal  lip, 
was  a  platform  perhaps  twelve  feet  above  the  floor  and 
looking  very  much  like  the  pilot's  deck  of  a  ship.  A 
little  flight  of  steps  led  up  to  it — very  steep  steps,  that 
trembled  a  little  under  a  repetition  of  shocks  that  came 
from  above.  Fanny  climbed  them  warily,  gained  the 
top,  and  found  herself  standing  next  to  the  girl  whose 
face  had  gleamed  out  at  her  from  among  those  thou- 


FANNY   HERSELF  223 

sands  in  the  crowd  pouring  out  of  the  plant.  The  girl 
glanced  up  at  Fanny  for  a  second — no,  for  the  fraction 
of  a  second.  Her  job  was  the  kind  that  permitted  no 
more  than  that.  Fanny  watched  her  for  one  breath- 
less moment.  In  that  moment  she  understood  the  look 
that  had  been  stamped  on  the  girl's  face  that  night ;  the 
look  that  had  cried :  "Release !"  For  this  platform, 
shaking  under  the  thud  of  bundles,  bundles,  bundles,  was 
the  stomach  of  the  Haynes-Cooper  plant.  Sixty  per 
cent  of  the  forty-five  thousand  daily  orders  passed 
through  the  hands  of  this  girl  and  her  assistants.  Down 
the  chutes  swished  the  bimdles,  stamped  with  their  sec- 
tion mark,  and  here  they  were  caught  deftly  and  hurled 
into  one  of  the  dozen  conveyers  that  flowed  out  from 
this  main  stream.  The  wrong  bundle  into  the  wrong 
conveyer?  Confusion  in  the  shipping  room.  It  only 
took  a  glance  of  the  eye  and  a  motion  of  the  arms.  But 
that  glance  and  that  motion  had  been  boiled  down  to 
the  very  concentrated  essence  of  economy.  They 
seemed  to  be  working  with  fury,  but  then,  so  does  a  pile- 
driver  until  you  get  the  simplicity  of  it. 

Fanny  bent  over  the  girl  (it  was  a  noisy  corner)  and 
put  a  question.  The  girl  did  not  pause  in  her  work  as 
she  answered  it.  She  caught  a  bundle  with  one  hand, 
hurled  one  into  a  conveyer  with  the  other. 

"Seven  a  week,"  she  said.  And  deftly  caught  the 
next  slithering  bundle. 

Fanny  watched  her  for  another  moment.  Then  she 
,  turned  and  went  down  the  steep  stairs. 

**None  of  your  business,"  she  said  to  herself,  and 
continued  her  tour.  "None  of  your  business."  She  went 
up  to  the  new  selectors'  floor,  and  found  the  plan  run- 
ning as  smoothly  as  if  it  had  been  part  of  the  plant's 
system  for  years  The  elevator  whisked  her  up  to  the 
top  floor,  where  she  met  the  plant's  latest  practical  fad, 
the  new  textile  chemist — a  charming  youth,  disguised 
in  bone-rimmed  glasses,  who  did  the  honors  of  his  little 


224.  FANNY   HERSELF 

labratory  with  all  the  manner  of  a  Harvard  host.  This 
was  the  fusing  oven  for  silks.  Here  was  the  drying 
oven.  This  delicate  scale  weighed  every  ounce  of  the 
cloth  swatches  that  came  in  for  inspection,  to  get  the 
percentage  of  wool  and  cotton.  Not  a  chance  for 
the  manufacturer  to  slip  shoddy  into  his  goods, 
now. 

"Mm,"  said  Fanny,  politely.  She  hated  complicated 
processes  that  had  to  do  with  scales,  and  weights,  and 
pounds,  and  acids.  She  crossed  over  to  the  Adminis- 
tration Building,  and  stopped  at  the  door  marked, 
"Mrs.  Knowles."  If  you  had  been  an  employee  of  the 
Haynes-Cooper  company,  and  had  been  asked  to  de- 
fine Mrs.  Knowles's  position  the  chances  are  that  you 
would  have  found  yourself  floundering,  wordless. 
Haynes-Cooper  was  reluctant  to  acknowledge  the  need 
of  Mrs.  Knowles.  Still,  when  you  employ  ten  thousand 
people,  and  more  than  half  of  these  are  girls,  and  fifty 
per  cent  of  these  girls  are  unskilled,  ignorant,  and  ter- 
ribly human  you  find  that  a  Mrs.  Knowles  saves  the 
equivalent  of  ten  times  her  salary  in  wear  and  tear  and 
general  prevention.  She  could  have  told  you  tragic 
stories,  could  Mrs.  Knowles,  and  sordid  stories,  and 
comic  too ;  she  knew  how  to  deal  with  terror,  and  shame, 
and  stubborn  silence,  and  hopeless  misery.  Gray-haired 
and  motherly?  Not  at  all.  An  astonishingly  young, 
pleasingly  plumpish  woman,  with  nothing  remarkable 
about  her  except  a  certain  splendid  calm.  Four  years 
out  of  Vassar,  and  already  she  had  learned  that  if  you 
fold  your  hands  in  your  lap  and  wait,  quietly,  asking 
no  questions,  almost  any  one  will  tell  you  almost  any- 
thing. 

"Hello!"  called  Fanny.  "How  are  our  morals  this 
morning?" 

"Going  up  !"  answered  Esther  Knowles,  '^considering 
that  it's  Tuesday.  Come  in.  How's  the  infant  prod- 
igy?    I  lunched  with  Ella  Monahan,  and  she  told  me 


FANNY   HERSELF  225 

your  first  New  York  trip  was  a  whirlwind.  Congratu- 
lations r 

"Thanks.  I  can't  stop.  I  haven't  touched  my  desk 
to-day.  I  just  want  to  ask  you  if  you  know  the  name 
of  that  girl  who  has  charge  of  the  main  chute  in  the 
merchandise  building." 

"Good  Lord,  child !    There  are  thousands  of  girls." 

"But  this  one's  rather  special.  She  is  awfully  pretty, 
and  rather  different  looking.  Exquisite  coloring,  a  dis- 
contented expression,  and  a  blouse  that's  too  low  in 
the  neck." 

"Which  might  be  a  description  of  Fanny  Brandeis 
herself,  barring  the  blouse,"  laughed  Mrs.  Knowles. 
Then,  at  the  startled  look  in  Fanny's  face,  "Do  for- 
give me.  And  don't  look  so  horrified.  I  think  I  know 
which  one  you  mean.  Her  name  is  Sarah  Sapinsky — 
yes,  isn't  it  a  pity! — and  it's  queer  that  you  should  ask 
me  about  her  because  I've  been  having  trouble  with  that 
particular  girl."  ^  .j    i      ^ 

"Trouble?"  ^^ 

"She  knows  she's  pretty,  and  she  knows  she's  differ- 
ent, and  she  knows  she's  handicapped,  and  that  ac- 
counts for  the  discontented  expression.  That,  and  some 
other  things.  She  gets  seven  a  week  here,  and  they 
take  just  about  all  of  it  at  home.  She  says  she's  sick 
of  it.  She  has  left  home  twice.  I  don't  blame  the  child, 
but  I've  always  managed  to  bring  her  back.  Some  day 
there'll  be  a  third  time — and  I'm  afraid  of  it.  She's 
not  bad.  She's  really  rather  splendid,  and  she  has  a 
certain  dreadful  philosophy  of  her  own.  Her  theory  is 
that  there  are  only  two  kinds  of  people  in  the  world. 
Those  that  give,  and  those  that  take.  And  she's  tired 
of  giving.  Sarah  didn't  put  it  just  that  way;  but  you 
know  what  she  means,  don't  you.'*" 

"I  know  what  she  means,"  said  Fanny,  grimly. 

So  it  was  Sarah  she  saw  above  all  else  in  her  trip 
throu^  the  gigantic  plant;  Sarah's  face  shone  out 


-?.- 


226  FANNY   HERSELF 

from  among  the  thousands;  the  thud-thud  of  Sarah's 
bundle-chute  beat  a  dull  accompaniment  to  the  hum  of 
the  big  hive;  above  the  rustle  of  those  myriad  yellow 
order-slips,  through  the  buzz  of  the  busy  mail  room; 
beneath  the  roar  of  the  presses  in  the  printing  build- 
ing, the  crash  of  the  dishes  in  the  cafeteria,  ran  the 
leid-motif  of  Sarah-at-seven-a-week.  Back  in  her  office 
once  more  Fanny  dictated  a  brief  observation-report 
for  Fenger's  perusal. 

"It  seems  to  me  there's  room  for  improvement  in  our 
card  index  file  system.  It's  thorough,  but  unwieldy. 
It  isn't  a  system  any  more.  It's  a  ceremony.  Can't 
you  get  a  corps  of  system  sharks  to  simplify  things 
there?" 

She  went  into  detail  and  passed  on  to  the  next  sug- 
gestion. 

"If  the  North  American  Cloak  &  Suit  Company  can 
sell  mail  order  dresses  that  are  actually  smart  and  in 
good  taste,  I  don't  see  why  we  have  to  go  on  carrying 
only  the  most  hideous  crudities  in  our  women's  dress 
department.  I  know  that  the  majority  of  our  women 
customers  wouldn't  wear  a  plain,  good  looking  little 
blue  serge  dress  with  a  white  collar,  and  some  tailored 
buttons.  They  want  cerise  satin  revers  on  a  plirni- 
colored  foulard,  and  that's  what  we've  been  giving 
them.  But  there  are  plenty  of  other  women  living  miles 
from  anywhere  who  know  what's  being  worn  on  Fifth 
avenue.  I  don't  know  how  they  know  it,  but  they  do. 
And  they  want  it.  Why  can't  we  reach  those  women,  as 
well  as  their  shoddier  sisters?  The  North  American 
people  do  it.  I'd  wear  one  of  their  dresses  myself.  I 
wouldn't  be  found  dead  in  one  of  ours.  Here's  a  sug- 
gestion : 

"Why  can't  we  get  Camille  to  design  half  a  dozen 
models  a  season  for  us?  Now  don't  roar  at  that.  And 
don't  think  that  the  women  on  western  ranches  haven't 
heard  of  Camille.    They  have.    They  may  know  nothing 


FANNY   HERSELF  227 

of  Mrs.  Pankhurst,  and  Lillian  Russell  may  be  a  myth 
to  them,  but  I'll  swear  that  every  one  of  them  knows 
that  Camille  is  a  dressmaker  who  makes  super-dresses. 
She  is  as  much  a  household  word  among  them  as  Roose- 
velt used  to  be  to  their  men  folks.  And  if  we  can  prom- 
ise them  a  Camille-designed  dress  for  $7.85  (which  we 
could)  then  why  don't  we?" 

At  the  very  end,  to  her  stenographer's  mystification, 
she  added  this  irrevelant  line.  "^-C/ 

"Seven  dollars  a  week  is  not  a  living  wage.'*  ^  ^ 
The  report  went  to  Fenger.  He  hurdled  lightly  over 
the  first  suggestion,  knowing  that  the  file  system  was  as 
simple  as  a  monster  of  its  bulk  could  be.  He  ignored 
the  third  hint.  The  second  suggestion  amused,  then 
interested,  then  convinced  him.  Within  six  months 
Camille's  name  actually  appeared  in  the  Haynes-Coop- 
er  catalogue.  Not  that  alone,  the  Haynes-Cooper 
company  broke  its  rule  as  to  outside  advertising,  and 
announced  in  full-page  magazine  ads  the  news  of  the 
$7.85  gowns  designed  by  Camille  especially  for  the 
Haynes-Cooper  company.  There  went  up  a  nation- 
wide shout  of  amusement  and  unbelief,  but  the  an- 
nouncement continued.  Camille  (herself  a  frump  with 
a  fringe)  whose  frocks  were  worn  by  queens,  and  dan- 
cers and  matrons  with  millions,  and  debutantes ;  Camille, 
who  had  introduced  the  slouch,  revived  the  hoop,  dis- 
covered the  sunset  chifFon,  had  actually  consented  to 
design  six  models  every  season  for  the  mail  order  mil- 
lions of  the  Haynes-Cooper  women's  dress  department 
— at  a  price  that  made  even  Michael  Fenger  wince. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN  - 

FANNY  BRANDEIS'  blouses  showed  real  Cluny 
now,  and  her  hats  were  nothing  but  line.  A  scant 
two  years  before  she  had  "pondered  if  she  would  fiver 
reach  a  pinnacle  of  success  lofty  enough  to  enable  her  to 
wear  blue  tailor  suits  as  smart  as  the  well-cut  garments 
worn  by  her  mother's  frienj,  Mrs.  Emma  McChesney. 
Mrs.  McChesney's  trig  little  suits  had  cost  fifty  dollars, 
and  had  looked  sixty.  Fanny's  now  cost  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five,  and  looked  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five.  Her  sleeves  alone  gave  it  away.  If  you  would  test 
the  soul  of  a  tailor  you  have  only  to  glance  at  shoulder- 
seam,  elbow  and  wrist.  Therein  lies  the  wizardry. 
Fanny's  sleeve  flowed  from  arm-pit  to  thumb-bone  with- 
rOut  a  ripple.  Also  she  moved  from  the  South  side  to 
xhe  North  side,  always  a  sign  of  prosperity  or  social 
ambition,  in  Chicago.  Her  new  apartment  was  near 
the  lake,  exhilaratingly  high,  correspondingly  expen- 
ive.  And  she  was  hideously  lonely.  She  was  earning 
a  man-size  salary  now,  and  she  was  working  like  a  man. 
A  less  magnificently  healthy  woman  could  not  have 
stood  the  strain,  for  Fanny  Brandeis  was  working  with 
her  head,  not  her  heart.  When  we  say  heart  we  have 
come  to  mean  something  more  than  the  hollow  muscular 
structure  that  propels  the  blood  through  the  veins. 
That,  in  the  dictionary,  is  the  primary  definition.  The 
secondary  definition  has  to  do  with  such  words  as  emo- 
tion, sympathy,  tenderness,  courage,  conviction.  She 
was  working,  now,  as  Michael  Fenger  worked,  relent- 
lessly, coldly,  indomitably,  using  all  the  material  at 
hand  as  a  means  to  an  end,  with  never  a  thought  of  the 


FANNY   HERSELF  229 

material  itself,  as  a  builder  reaches  for  a  brick,  or  stone, 
and  fits  it  into  place,  smoothly,  almost  without  actually 
seeing  the  brick  itself,  except  as  something  which  will 
help  to  make  a  finished  wall.  She  rarely  prowled  the 
city  now.  She  told  herself  she  was  too  tired  at  night, 
and  on  Sundays  and  holidays,  and  I  suppose  she  was. 
Indeed,  she  no  longer  saw  things  with  her  former  vision. 
It  was  as  though  her  soul  had  shriveled  in  direct  pro-' 
portion  to  her  salary's  expansion.  The  streets  seldom 
furnished  her  with  a  rich  mental  meal  now.  When  she 
met  a  woman  with  a  child,  in  the  park,  her  keen  eye 
noted  the  child's  dress  before  it  saw  the  child  itself,  if, 
indeed,  she  noticed  the  child  at  all. 

Fascinating  Facts,  the  guileless,  pink-cheeked  youth 
who  had  driven  her  home  the  night  of  her  first  visit  to 
the  Fengers,  shortly  after  her  coming  to  Haynes-Coo- 
per's,  had  proved  her  faithful  slave,  and  she  had  not 
abused  his  devotion.  Indeed,  she  hardly  considered  it 
that.  The  sex  side  of  her  was  being  repressed  with 
the  artist  side.  Most  men  found  her  curt,  brisk,  busi- 
nesslike manner  a  little  repellent,  though  interesting. 
They  never  made  love  to  her,  in  spite  of  her  undeniable 
attractiveness.  Fascinating  Facts  drove  her  about  in 
his  smart  little  roadster  and  one  night  he  established 
himself  in  her  memory  forever  as  the  first  man  who  had 
ever  asked  her  to  marry  him.  He  did  it  haltingly,  pain- 
fully, almost  grudgingly.  Fanny  was  frankly  amazed. 
She  had  enjoyed  going  about  with  him.  He  rested  and 
soothed  her.  He,  in  turn,  had  been  stimulated  by  her 
energy,  her  humor,  her  electric  force.  Nothing  was 
said  for  a  minute  after  his  awkward  declaration. 

"But,"  he  persisted,  "you  like  me,  don't  youi"' 

*'0f  course  I  do.    Immensely." 

"Then  why.?" 

"When  a  woman  of  my  sort  marries  it's  a  miracle. 
I'm  twenty-six,  and  intelligent  and  very  successful.  A 
frightful  combination.    Unmarried  women  of  my  type 


230  FANNY   HERSELF 

aren't  content  just  to  feel.  They  must  analyze  thedr 
feelings.    And  analysis  is  death  to  romance." 

"Great  Scott!  You  expect  to  marry  somebody 
sometime,  don't  you,  Fanny.?" 

"No  one  I  know  now.  When  I  do  marry,  if  I  do,  it 
will  be  with  the  idea  of  making  a  definite  gain.  I  don't 
mean  necessarily  worldly  gain,  though  that  would  be  a 
factor,  too." 

Fascinating  Facts  had  been  staring  straight  ahead, 
his  hands  gripping  the  wheel  with  unnecessary  rigidity. 
He  relaxed  a  little  now,  and  even  laughed,  though  not 
very  successfully.  Then  he  said  something  very  wise, 
for  him. 

"Listen  to  me,  girl.  You'll  never  get  away  with  that 
Tampire  stuff.  Talons  are  things  you  have  to  be  born 
with.  You'll  never  learn  to  grab  with  these."  He 
reached  over,  and  picked  up  her  left  hand  lying  inertly 
in  her  lap,  and  brought  it  up  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it, 
glove  and  all.  "They're  built  on  the  open-face  pattern 
— for  giving.    You  can't  fool  me.    I  know." 

A  year  and  a  half  after  her  coming  to  Haynes-Coop- 
er  Fanny's  department  was  doing  a  business  of  a  mil- 
lion a  year.  The  need  had  been  there.  She  had  merely 
given  it  the  impetus.  She  was  working  more  or  less  di- 
rectly with  Fenger  now,  with  an  eye  on  every  one  of  the 
departments  that  had  to  do  with  women's  clothing,  from 
shoes  to  hats.  Not  that  she  did  any  actual  buying,  or 
selling  in  these  departments.  She  still  confined  her 
actual  selecting  of  goods  to  the  infants'  wear  section, 
but  she  occupied,  unofficially,  the  position  of  assistant 
to  the  General  Merchandise  Manager.  They  worked 
well  together,  she  and  Fenger,  their  minds  often  march- 
ing along  without  the  necessity  of  a  single  spoken  word. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Fenger's  mind  was  a  mar- 
velous piece  of  mechanism.  Under  it  the  Haynes-Coo- 
per  plant  functioned  with  the  clockwork  regularity  of 
-a   gigantic   automaton.      System   and   Results — these 


fanny:  herself        231 

were  his  twin  gods.  With  his  mind  intent  on  them  he 
failed  to  see  that  new  gods,  born  of  spiritual  unrest, 
were  being  set  up  in  the  temples  of  Big  Business.  Their 
coming  had  been  rumored  for  many  years.  Words 
such  as  Brotherhood,  Labor,  Rights,  Humanity,  Hours, 
once  regarded  as  the  special  property  of  the  street 
corner  ranter,  were  creeping  into  our  everyday  vocabu- 
lary. And  strangely  enough,  Nathan  Haynes,  the  gen- 
tle, the  bewildered,  the  uninspired,  heard  them,  and  lis- 
tened. Nathan  Haynes  had  begun  to  accustom  himself 
to  the  roar  of  the  flood  that  had  formerly  deafened  him. 
He  was  no  longer  stunned  by  the  inrush  of  his  millions. 
The  report  sheet  handed  him  daily  had  never  ceased  to 
be  a  wildly  unexpected  thing,  and  he  still  shrank  from 
it,  sometimes.  It  was  so  fantastic,  so  out  of  all  reason. 
But  he  even  dared,  now  and  then,  to  put  out  a  tentative 
hand  to  guide  the  flood.  He  began  to  realize,  vaguely, 
that  Italian  Gardens,  and  marble  pools,  educational 
endowments  and  pet  charities  were  but  poor,  ineffectual 
barriers  of  mud  and  sticks,  soon  swept  away  by  the 
torrent.  As  he  sat  there  in  his  great,  luxurious  office, 
with  the  dim,  rich  old  portraits  gleaming  down  on  him 
from  the  walls,  he  began,  gropingly,  to  evolve  a  new 
plan ;  a  plan  by  which  the  golden  flood  was  to  be  curbed, 
divided,  and  made  to  form  a  sub-stream,  to  be  utilized 
for  the  good  of  the  many;  for  the  good  of  the  Ten 
Thousand,  who  were  almost  Fifteen  Thousand  now,  with 
another  fifteen  thousand  in  mills  and  factories  at  dis- 
tant points,  whose  entire  output  was  swallowed  up  by 
the  Haynes-Cooper  plant.  Michael  Fenger,  Super- 
Manager,  listened  to  the  plan,  smiled  tolerantly,  and 
went  on  perfecting  an  already  miraculous  System. 
Sarah  Sapinsky,  at  seven  a  week,  was  just  so  much  un- 
trained labor  material,  easily  replaced  by  material  ex- 
actly like  it.  No,  Michael  Fenger,  with  his  head  in  the 
sand,  heard  no  talk  of  new  gods.  He  only  knew  that 
the  monster  plant  under  his  management  was  yielding 


232  FANNY   HERSELF 

the  greatest  possible  profit  under  the  least  possible  out- 
lay. 

In  Fanny  Brandeis  he  had  found  a  stimulating,  en- 
ergizing fellow  worker.  That  had  been  from  the  be- 
ginning. In  the  first  month  or  two  of  her  work,  when 
her  keen  brain  was  darting  here  and  there,  into  for- 
gotten and  neglected  corners,  ferreting  out  dusty  scraps 
of  business  waste  and  holding  them  up  to  the  light,  dis- 
dainfully, Fenger  had  watched  her  with  a  mingling  of 
amusement  and  a  sort  of  fond  pride,  as  one  would  a 
precocious  child.  As  the  months  went  on  the  pride 
and  amusement  welded  into  something  more  than  ad- 
miration, such  as  one  expert  feels  for  a  fellow-crafts- 
man. Long  before  the  end  of  the  first  year  he  knew 
that  here  was  a  woman  such  as  he  had  dreamed  of  all 
his  life  and  never  hoped  to  find.  He  often  found  him- 
self sitting  at  his  office  desk,  or  in  his  library  at  home, 
staring  straight  ahead  for  a  longer  time  than  he  dared 
admit,  his  papers  or  book  forgotten  in  his  hand.  His 
thoughts  applied  to  her  adjectives  which  proved  her  a 
paradox:  Generous,  sympathetic,  warm-hearted,  im- 
pulsive, imaginative;  cold,  indomitable,  brilliant,  dar- 
ing, intuitive.  He  would  rouse  himself  almost  angrily 
and  force  himself  to  concentrate  again  upon  the  page 
before  him.  I  don't  know  how  he  thought  it  all  would 
end — he  whose  life-habit  it  was  to  follow  out  every  proc- 
ess to  its  ultimate  step,  whether  mental  or  mechanical. 
As  for  Fanny,  there  was  nothing  of  the  intriguant 
about  her.  She  was  used  to  admiration.  She  was  ac- 
customed to  deference  from  men.  Brandeis'  Bazaar 
had  insured  that.  All  her  life  men  had  taken  orders 
from  her,  all  the  way  from  Aloysius  and  the  blithe  trav- 
eling men  of  whom  she  bought  goods,  to  the  salesmen 
and  importers  in  the  Chicago  wholesale  houses.  If 
they  had  attempted,  occasionally,  to  mingle  the  social 
and  personal  with  the  commercial  Fanny  had  not  re- 
sented their  attitude.    She  had  accepted  their  admira- 


FANNY   HERSELF  233 

tion  and  refused  their  invitations  with  equal  good  na- 
ture, and  thus  retained  their  friendship.  It  is  not  ex- 
aggeration to  say  that  she  looked  upon  Michael  Fenger 
much  as  she  had  upon  these  genial  fellow-workers.  A 
woman  as  straightforward  and  direct  as  she  has  what 
is  known  as  a  single-track  mind  in  such  matters.  It 
is  your  soft  and  silken  mollusc  type  of  woman  whose 
mind  pursues  a  slimy  and  labyrinthine  trail.  But  it  is  \ 
useless  to  say  that  she  did  not  feel  something  of  the  in- 
tense personal  attraction  of  the  man.  Often  it  used 
to  puzzle  and  annoy  her  to  find  that  as  they  sat  arguing 
in  the  brisk,  everyday  atmosphere  of  office  or  merchan- 
dise room  the  air  between  them  would  suddenly  become 
electric,  vibrant.  They  met  each  other's  eyes  with 
effort.  When  their  hands  touched,  accidentally,  over 
papers  or  samples  they  snatched  them  back.  Fanny 
found  herself  laughing  uncertainly,  at  nothing,  and  was 
furious.  When  a  silence  fell  between  them  they  would 
pounce  upon  it,  breathlessly,  and  smother  it  with  talk. 

Do  not  think  that  any  furtive  love-making  went  on. 
sandwiched  between  shop  talk.  Their  conversation 
might  have  taken  place  between  two  men.  Indeed,  they 
often  were  brutally  frank  to  each  other.  Fanny  had 
the  vision,  Fenger  the  science  to  apply  it.  Sometimes 
her  intuition  leaped  ahead  of  his  reasoning.  Then  he 
would  say,  "I'm  not  sold  on  that,"  which  is  modern 
business  slang  meaning,  "You  haven't  convinced  me." 
She  would  go  back  and  start  afresh,  covering  the 
ground  more  slowly. 

Usually  her  suggestions  were  practical  and  what 
might  be  termed  human.  They  seemed  to  be  founded 
on  an  uncanny  knowledge  of  people's  frailties.  It  was 
only  when  she  touched  upon  his  beloved  System  that  he 
was  adamant.  "~~| 

"None  of  that  socialistic  stuff,"  he  would  say.  "This  I 
isn't  a  Benevolent  Association  we're  running.  It's  the  ' 
biggest  mail  order  business  in  the  world,  and  its  back- 


234        fanny:  herself 

bone  is  System.    I've  been  just  fifteen  years  perfecting 
cthat  System,     It's  my  job.     Hands  off." 

"A  fifteen  year  old  system  ought  to  be  scrapped," 
Fanny  would  retort,  boldly.  "Anyway,  the  Simon  Le- 
gree  thing  has  gone  out." 

No  one  in  the  plant  had  ever  dared  to  talk  to  him  like 
that.  He  would  glare  down  at  Fanny  for  a  moment, 
like  a  mastiff  on  a  terrier.  Fanny,  seeing  his  face  rage- 
red,  would  flash  him  a  cheerful  and  impudent  smile. 
The  anger,  fading  slowly,  gave  way  to  another  look,  so 
that  admiration  and  resentment  mingled  for  a  moment. 

"Lucky  for  you  you're  not  a  man." 

"I  wish  I  were." 

"I'm  glad  you're  not." 

Not  a  very  thrilling  conversation  for  those  of  you 
who  are  seeking  heartthrobs. 

In  May  Fanny  made  her  first  trip  to  Europe  for 
the  firm.  It  was  a  sudden  plan.  Instantly  Theodore 
leaped  to  her  mind  and  she  was  startled  at  the  tumult 
she  felt  at  the  thought  of  seeing  him  and  his  child. 
The  baby,  a  girl,  was  more  than  a  year  old.  Her  busi- 
ness, a  matter  of  two  weeks,  perhaps,  was  all  in  Berlin 
and  Paris,  but  she  cabled  Theodore  that  she  would 
come  to  them  in  Munich,  if  only  for  a  day  or  two.  She 
had  very  little  curiosity  about  the  woman  Theodore 
had  married.  The  memory  of  that  first  photograph  of 
hers,  befrizzed,  be  jeweled,  and  asmirk,  had  never  ef- 
faced itself.  It  had  stamped  her  indelibly  in  Fanny's 
mind. 

I  The  day  before  she  left  for  New  York  (she  sailed 
from  there)  she  had  a  letter  from  Theodore.  It  was 
evident  at  once  that  he  had  not  received  her  cable.  He 
was  in  Russia,  giving  a  series  of  concerts.  Olga  and 
the  baby  were  with  him.  He  would  be  back  in  Munich 
in  June.  There  was  some  talk  of  America.  When 
Fanny  realized  that  she  was  not  to  see  him  she  experi- 
enced a  strange  feeling  that  was  a  mixture  of  regret  and 


FANNY   HERSELF  235 

relief.  All  the  family  love  in  her,  a  racial  trait,  had 
been  stirred  at  the  thought  of  again  seeing  that  dear 
blond  brother,  the  self-centered,  willful,  gifted  boy  who 
had  held  the  little  congregation  rapt,  there  in  the  Jew- 
ish house  of  worship  in  Winnebago.  But  she  had  re- 
coiled a  little  from  the  meeting  with  this  other  un- 
known person  who  gave  concerts  in  Russia,  who  had 
adopted  Munich  as  his  home,  who  was  the  husband  of 
this  Olga  person,  and  the  father  of  a  ridiculously  Ger- 
man looking  baby  in  a  very  German  looking  dress,  all 
lace  and  tucks,  and  wearing  bracelets  on  its  chubby 
arms,  and  a  locket  round  its  neck.  That  was  what 
one  might  expect  of  Olga's  baby.  But  not  of  Theo- 
dore's. Besides,  what  business  had  that  boy  with  a 
baby,  anyway  ?    Himself  a  baby. 

Fenger  had  arranged  for  her  cabin,  and  she  rather 
resented  its  luxury  until  she  learned  later,  that  it  is  the 
buyers  who  always  occupy  the  staterooms  de  luxe  on 
ocean  liners.  She  learned,  too,  that  the  men  in  yachting 
caps  and  white  flannels,  and  the  women  in  the  smartest 
and  most  subdued  of  blue  serge  and  furs  were  not  mil- 
lionaires temporarily  deprived  of  their  own  private  sea- 
going craft,  but  buyers  like  herself,  shrewd,  aggressive, 
wise  and  incredibly  endowed  with  savoir  faire.  Merely 
to  watch  one  of  them  dealing  with  a  deck  steward  was 
to  know  for  all  time  the  superiority  of  mind  over  mat- 
ter. 

Most  incongruously,  it  was  Ella  Monahan  and  Clar- 
ence Heyl  who  waved  good-by  to  her  as  her  ship  swung 
clear  of  the  dock.  Ella  was  in  New  York  on  her 
monthly  trip.  Heyl  had  appeared  at  the  hotel  as 
Fanny  was  adjusting  her  veil  and  casting  a  last  rather 
wild  look  around  the  room.  Molly  Brandeis  had  been 
the  kind  of  woman  who  never  misses  a  train  or  over- 
looks a  hairpin.  Fanny's  early  training  had  proved 
invaluable  more  than  once  in  the  last  two  years.  Never- 
theless, she  was  rather  flustered,  for  her,  as  the  elevator 


'236  FANNY   HERSELF 

took  her  down  to  the  main  floor.  She  told  herself  it  was 
not  the  contemplation  of  the  voyage  itself  that  thrilled 
her.  It  was  the  fact  that  here  was  another  step  defin- 
itely marking  her  progress. 

Heyl,  looking  incredibly  limp,  was  leaning  against  a 
gaudy  marble  pillar,  his  eyes  on  the  downcoming  eleva- 
tors. Fanny  saw  him  just  an  instant  before  he  saw 
her,  and  in  that  moment  she  found  herself  wondering 
why  this  boy  (she  felt  years  older  than  he)  should  look 
JBO  fantastically  out  of  place  in  this  great,  glittering, 
feverish  hotel  lobby.  Just  a  shy,  rather  swarthy  Jew- 
ish boy,  who  wore  the  right  kind  of  clothes  in  the  wrong 
manner — then  Heyl  saw  her  and  came  swiftly  toward 
her. 

"Hello,  Fan!" 

"Hello,  Clancy!"  They  had  not  seen  each  other  in 
six  months. 

"Anybody  else  going  down  with  you?" 

"No.  Ella  Monahan  had  a  last-minute  business  ap- 
pointment, but  she  promised  to  be  at  the  dock,  some- 
how, before  the  boat  leaves.  I'm  going  to  be  grand, 
and  taxi  all  the  way." 

"I've  an  open  car,  waiting." 

"But  I  won't  have  it !    I  can't  let  you  do  that." 

"Oh,  yes  you  can.  Don't  take  it  so  hard.  That's  the 
trouble  with  you  business  women.  You're  killing  the 
gallantry  of  a  nation.  Some  day  one  of  you  will  get 
up  and  give  me  a  seat  in  a  subway " 

"I'll  punish  you  for  that,  Clancy.  If  you  want  the 
Jane  Austen  thing  I'll  accommodate.  I'll  drop  my 
handkerchief,  gloves,  bag,  flowers  and  fur  scarf  at  in- 
tervals of  five  minutes  all  the  way  downtown.  Then  you 
may  scramble  around  on  the  floor  of  the  cab  and  feel 
like  a  knight." 

Fanny  had  long  ago  ceased  to  try  to  define  the  charm 
of  this  man.  She  always  meant  to  be  serenely  digni- 
fied with  him.    She  always  ended  by  feeling  very  young, 


FANNY.   HERSELF  237 

and,  somehow,  gloriously  carefree  and  lighthearted. 
There  was  about  him  a  naturalness,  a  simplicity,  to 
which  one  responded  in  kind. 

Seated  beside  her  he  turned  and  regarded  her  with 
disconcerting  scrutiny. 

"Like  it.?"  demanded  Fanny,  pertly.  And  smoothed 
her  veil,  consciously. 

"No." 

"Well,  for  a  man  who  looks  negligee  even  in  evening 
clothes  aren't  you  overcritical?" 

"I'm  not  criticizing  your  clothes.  Even  I  can  see 
that  that  hat  and  suit  have  the  repressed  note  that 
means  money.  And  you're  the  kind  of  woman  who 
looks  her  best  in  those  plain  dark  things." 

"Well,  then.?" 

"You  look  like  a  buyer.  In  two  more  years  your 
face  will  have  that  hard  finish  that  never  comes  off." 

"I  am  a  buyer." 

"You're  not.  You're  a  creator.  Remember,  I'm 
not  belittling  your  job.  It's  a  wonderful  jol> — for 
Ella  Monahan.  I  wish  I  had  the  gift  of  eloquence.  I 
wish  I  had  the  right  to  spank  you.  I  wish  I  could  prove 
to  you,  somehow,  that  with  your  gift,  and  heritage, 
and  racial  right  it's  as  criminal  for  you  to  be  earning 
your  thousands  at  Haynes-Cooper's  as  it  would  have 
been  for  a  vestal  virgin  to  desert  her  altar  fire  to  stoke 
a  furnace.  Your  eyes  are  bright  and  hard,  instead  of 
tolerant.  Your  mouth  is  losing  its  graciousness.  Your 
whole  face  is  beginning  to  be  stamped  with  a  look  that 
says  shrewdness  and  experience,  and  success." 

"I  am  successful.     Why  shouldn't  I  look  it.?" 

"Because  you're  a  failure.  I'm  sick,  I  tell  you — sick 
with  disappointment  in  you.  Jane  Addams  would  have 
been  a  success  in  business,  too.  She  was  born  with  a 
humanity  sense,  and  a  value  sense,  and  a  something 
else  that  can't  be  acquired.  Ida  Tarbell  could  have 
managed  your  whole   Haynes-Cooper  plant,   if  she'd 


238  FANNY   HERSELF 

had  to.  So  could  a  dozen  other  women  I  could  name. 
You  don't  see  any  sign  of  what  you  call  success  on 
Jane  Addams's  face,  do  you?  You  wouldn't  say,  on 
seeing  her,  that  here  was  a  woman  who  looked  as  if  she 
might  afford  hundred-dollar  tailor  suits  and  a  town 
car.  No.  All  you  see  in  her  face  is  the  reflection  of  the 
souls  of  all  the  men  and  women  she  has  worked  to 
save.  She  has  covered  her  job — the  job  that  the  Lord 
intended  her  to  cover.  And  to  me  she  is  the  most  radi- 
antly beautiful  woman  I  have  ever  seen." 

Fanny  sat  silent.     She  was  twisting  the  fingers  of 

one  hand  in  the  grip  of  the  other,  as  she  had  since 

childhood,  when  deeply  disturbed.     And  suddenly  she 

began  to  cry — silently,  harrowingly,  as  a  man  cries, 

•jj^'  j  her  shoulders  shaking,  her  face  buried  in  her  furs. 

"Fanny!  Fanny  girl!"  He  was  horribly  disturbed 
and  contrite.  He  patted  her  arm,  awkwardly.  She 
shook  free  of  his  hand,  childishly.  "Don't  cry,  dear. 
I'm  sorry.  It's  just  that  I  care  so  much.  It's 
just '' 

She  raised  an  angry,  tear-stained  face.  "It's  just 
that  you  have  an  exalted  idea  of  your  own  perceptions. 
It's  just  that  you've  grown  up  from  what  they  used 
to  call  a  bright  little  boy  to  a  bright  young  man,  and 
you're  just  as  tiresome  now  as  you  were  then.  I'm 
happy  enough,  except  when  I  see  you.  I'm  getting 
the  things  I  starved  for  all  those  years.  Why,  I'll 
never  get  over  being  thrilled  at  the  idea  of  being  able 
to  go  to  the  theater,  or  to  a  concert,  whenever  I  like. 
Actually  whenever  I  want  to.  And  to  be  able  to  buy  a 
jabot,  or  a  smart  hat,  or  a  book.  You  don't  know  how 
I  wanted  things,  and  how  tired  I  got  of  never  having 
them.    I'm  happy !    I'm  happy !    Leave  me  alone !" 

"It's  an  awful  price  to  pay  for  a  hat,  and  a  jabot, 
and  a  book  and  a  theater  ticket.  Fan." 

Ella  Monahan  had  taken  the  tube,  and  was  standing 
in  the  great  shed,  watching  arrivals  with  interest,  long 


fanny:  herself        239 

before  they  bumped  over  the  cobblestones  of  Hoboken. 
The  three  descended  to  Fanny's  cabin.  Ella  had  sent 
champagne — six  cosy  pints  in  a  wicker  basket. 

"They  say  it's  good  for  seasickness,"  she  announced, 
cheerfully,  "but  it's  a  lie.  Nothing's  good  for  seasick- 
ness, except  death,  or  dry  land.  But  even  if  you  do 
feel  miserable — and  you  probably  will — there's  some- 
thing about  being  able  to  lie  in  your  berth  and  drink 
champagne  alone,  by  the  spoonful,  that's  sort  of  sooth- 
ing." 

Heyl  had  fallen  silent.  Fanny  was  radiant  again, 
and  exclamatory  over  her  books  and  flowers. 

"Of  course  it's  my  first  trip,"  she  explained,  "and 
an  event  in  my  life,  but  I  didn't  suppose  that  anybody 
else  would  care.  What's  this.?  Candy.?  Glace  fruit." 
She  glanced  around  the  luxurious  little  cabin,  then  up 
at  Heyl,  impudently.  "I  may  be  a  coarse  commercial 
person,  Clancy,  but  I  must  say  I  like  this  very,  very 
much.     Sorry." 

They  went  up  on  deck.  Ella,  a  seasoned  traveler, 
was  full  of  parting  instructions.  "And  be  sure  to  eat 
at  Kempinski's,  in  Berlin.  Twenty  cents  for  lobster. J 
And  caviar!  Big  as  hen's  eggs,  and  as  cheap  as  cod- 
fish. And  don't  forget  to  order  mai-bowle.  It  tastes 
like  champagne,  but  isn't,  and  it  has  the  most  delicious 
dwarf  strawberries  floating  on  top.  This  is  just  the 
season  for  it.  You're  lucky.  If  you  tip  the  waiter  one 
mark  he's  yours  for  life.  Oh,  and  remember  the  plum 
compote.  You'll  be  disappointed  in  their  Wertheim's 
that  they're  always  bragging  about.  After  all,  Field's 
makes  'em  all  look  like  country  stores." 

"Wertheim's.?    Is  that  something  to  eat,  too.?" 

"No,  idiot.  It's  their  big  dej>artment  store."  Ella 
turned  to  Heyl,  for  whom  she  felt  mingled  awe  and  lik- 
ing. "If  this  trip  of  hers  is  successful,  the  firm  will 
probably  send  her  over  three  or  four  times  a  year. 
It's  a  wonderful  chance  for  a  kid  like  her." 


240  FANNY   HERSELF. 

"Then  I  hope,"  said  Heyl,  quietly,  "that  this  trip 
taay  be  a  failure." 

Ella  smiled,  uncertainly. 

"Don't  laugh,"  said  Fanny,  sharply.    "He  means  it.'* 

Ella,  sensing  an  unpleasant  something  in  which  she 
had  no  part,  covered  the  situation  with  another  rush 
of  conversation. 

"You'll  get  the  jolt  of  your  life  when  you  come  to 
Paris  and  find  that  you're  expected  to  pay  for  the 
lunches,  and  all  the  cab  fares,  and  everything,  of  those 
shrimpy  little  commissionaires.  Polite  little  fellows, 
they  are,  in  frock  coats,  and  mustaches,  and  they  just 
stand  aside,  as  courtly  as  you  please,  while  you  pay  for 
everything.  Their  house  expects  it.  I  almost  passed 
away,  the  first  time,  but  you  get  used  to  it.  Say, 
imagine  one  of  our  traveling  men  letting  you  pay  for 
his  lunch  and  taxi," 

She  rattled  on,  genially.  Heyl  listened  with  un- 
feigned delight.  Ella  found  herself  suddenly  abashed 
before  those  clear,  far-seeing  eyes.  "You  think  I'm  a 
gabby  old  girl,  don't  you?" 

"I  think  you're  a  wonderful  woman,"  said  Heyl. 
"Very  wise,  and  very  kind." 

"Why— thanks,"  faltered  Ella.     "Why— thanks." 

They  said  their  good-bys.  Ella  hugged  Fanny  warm- 
heartedly. Then  she  turned  away,  awkwardly.  Heyl 
put  his  two  hands  on  Fanny's  shoulders  and  looked 
down  at  her.  For  a  breathless  second  she  thought  he 
was  about  to  kiss  her.  She  was  amazed  to  find  herself 
hoping  that  he  would.  But  he  didn't.  "Good-by,"  he 
said,  simply.  And  took  her  hand  in  his  steel  grip  a 
moment,  and  dropped  it.  And  turned  away.  A  mes- 
senger boy,  very  much  out  of  breath,  came  running 
up  to  her,  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

"For  me?"  Fanny  opened  it,  frowned,  smiled.  "It's 
from  Mr.  Fenger.  Good  wishes.  As  if  all  those  flow- 
ers weren't  enough." 


FANNY   HERSELF  241 

**Mm,"  said  Ella.  She  and  Heyl  descended  the  gang* 
way,  and  stood  at  the  dock's  edge,  looking  rather  fool- 
ish and  uncertain,  as  people  do  at  such  times.  There 
followed  a  few  moments  of  scramble,  of  p.bsurdly 
shouted  last  messages,  of  bells,  and  frantic  waving  of 
handkerchiefs.  Fanny,  at  the  rail,  found  her  two 
among  the  crowd,  and  smiled  down  upon  them,  mistily. 
Ella  was  waving  energetically.  Heyl  was  standing  quite 
still,  looking  up.  The  ship  swung  clear,  crept  away 
from  the  dock.  The  good-bys  swelled  to  a  roar.  Fanny 
leaned  far  over  the  rail  and  waved  too,  a  sob  in  her 
throat.  Then  she  saw  that  she  was  waving  with  the 
hand  that  held  the  yellow  telegram.  She  crumpled  it 
in  the  other  hand,  and  substituted  her  handkerchief. 
Heyl  still  stood,  hat  in  hand,  motionless. 

*'Why  don't  you  wave  good-by?"  she  called,  though 
he  could  not  possibly  hear.  "Wave  good-by!"  And 
then  the  hand  with  the  handkerchief  went  to  her  face, 
and  she  was  weeping.  I  think  it  was  that  old  drama- 
thrill  in  her,  dormant  for  so  long.  But  at  that  Heyl 
swung  his  hat  above  his  head,  three  times,  like  a  s^'hool- 
boy,  and,  grasping  Ella's  plump  and  resisting  wrm. 
marched  abruptly  away. 


CHAPTER   FIFTEEN 

THE  first  week  in  June  found  her  back  in  New  York. 
That  month  of  absence  had  worked  a  subtle 
change.  The  two  weeks  spent  in  crossing  and  recross- 
ing  had  provided  her  with  a  let-down  that  had  been  ' 
almost  jarring  in  its  completeness.  Everything  com- 
petitive had  seemed  to  fade  away  with  the  receding 
shore,  and  to  loom  up  again  only  when  the  skyline  be- 
came a  thing  of  smoke-banks,  spires,  and  shafts.  She 
had  had  only  two  weeks  for  the  actual  transaction  of 
her  business.  She  must  have  been  something  of  a  reve- 
lation to  those  Paris  and  Berlin  manufacturers,  accus- 
tomed though  they  were  to  the  brisk  and  irresistible 
methods  of  the  American  business  woman.  She  was, 
after  all,  absurdly  young  to  be  talking  in  terms  of 
millions,  and  she  was  amazingly  well  dressed.  This  last 
passed  unnoticed,  or  was  taken  for  granted  in  Paris, 
but  in  Berlin,  home  of  the  frump  and  the  flour-sack 
figure,  she  was  stared  at,  appreciatively.  Her  business, 
except  for  one  or  two  unimportant  side  lines,  had  to  do  l 
with  two  factories  on  whose  product  the  Haynes-Coo- 
per  company  had  long  had  a  covetous  eye.  Quantity, » 
as  usual,  was  the  keynote  of  their  demand,  and  Fanny's 
task  was  that  of  talking  in  six-figure  terms  to  these 
conservative  and  over-wary  foreign  manufacturers. 
That  she  had  successfully  accomplished  this,  and  that 
she  had  managed  to  impress  them  also  with  the  impor- 
tant part  that  time  and  promptness  in  delivery  played 
in  a  swift-moving  machine  like  the  Haynes-Cooper  con- 
cern, was  due  to  many  things  beside  her  natural  busi- 
ness ability.     Self-confidence  was  there,  and  physical 

242 


FANNY   HERSELF  243 

Vigor,  and  diplomacy.  But  above  all  there  was  that 
sheer  love  of  the  game ;  the  dramatic  sense  that  enabled 
her  to  see  herself  in  the  part.  That  alone  precluded 
the  possibility  of  failure.  She  knew  how  youthful  she 
looked,  and  how  glowing.  She  anticipated  the  look  that 
f  came  into  their  faces  when  she  left  polite  small-talk 

•  behind  and  soared  up  into  the  cold,  rarefied  atmosphere 
of  business.     She  delighted  in  seeing  the  admiring  and 

>  tolerant  smirk  vanish  and  give  way  to  a  startled  and 

.  defensive  attentiveness. 

It  might  be  mentioned  that  she  managed,  somehow,  to 
spend  almost  half  a  day  in  Petticoat  Lane,  and  its 
squalid  surroundings,  while  in  London.  She  actually 
prowled,  alone,  at  night,  in  the  evil-smelling,  narrow 
streets  of  the  poorer  quarter  of  Paris,  and  how  she 
escaped  unharmed  is  a  mystery  that  never  bothered  her, 
because  she  had  never  known  fear  of  streets.  She  had 
always  walked  on  the  streets  of  Winnebago,  Wisconsin, 
alone.  It  never  occurred  to  her  not  to  do  the  same  in 
the  streets  of  Chicago,  or  New  York,  or  London,  or 
Paris.  She  found  Berlin,  with  its  Adlon,  its  appalling 
cleanliness,  its  overfed  populace,  and  its  omnipresent 
Kaiser  forever  scudding  up  and  down  Unter  den  Linden 
in  his  chocolate-colored  car,  incredibly  dull,  and  un- 
picturesque.  Something  she  had  temporarily  lost  there 
in  the  busy  atmosphere  of  the  Haynes-Cooper  plant, 
seemed  to  have  returned,  miraculously. 

New  York,  on  her  return,  was  something  of  a  shock. 

•  She  remembered  how  vividly  fresh  it  had  looked  to  her 
on  the  day  of  that  first  visit,  months  before.  Now,  to 
eyes  fresh  from  the  crisp  immaculateness  of  Paris  and 
Berlin,  Fifth  avenue  looked  almost  grimy,  and  certainly 
shabby  in  spots. 

Ella  Monahan,  cheerful,  congratulatory,  beaming, 
met  her  at  the  pier,  and  Fanny  was  startled  at  her  own 
sensation  of  happiness  as  she  saw  that  pink,  good- 
natured  face  looking  up  at  her  from  the  crowd  below. 


244  FANNY   HERSELF 

The  month  that  had  gone  by  since  last  she  saw  Ella 
i  standing  just  so,  seemed  to  slip  away  and  fade  into 
nothingness. 

I      "I  waited  over  a  day,"  said  Ella,  "just  to  see  you. 
i  My,  you  look  grand !    I  know  where  you  got  that  hat. 
Galeries  Lafayette.     How  much?" 

I      "I  don't  expect  you  to  believe  it.    Thirty-five  francs. 
'  Seven    dollars.      I    couldn't    get    it    for    twenty-five 
here." 

\  They  were  soon  clear  of  the  customs.  Ella  had 
engaged  a  room  for  her  at  the  hotel  they  always  used. 
I  As  they  rode  uptown  together,  happily,  Ella  opened 
I  her  bag  and  laid  a  little  packet  of  telegrams  and  letters 
!  in  Fanny's  lap.  "\ 

j  *'I  guess  Fenger's  pleased,  all  right,  if  telegrams  mean 
;  anything.  Not  that  I  know  they're  from  him.  But  he 
I  said— "  ; 

\     But  Fanny  was  looking  up  from  one  of  them  withi] 
!  a  startled  expression. 

"He's  here.  Fenger's  here." 
"In  New  York?"  asked  Ella,  rather  dully. 
"Yes."  She  ripped  open  another  letter.  It  was  from 
Theodore.  He  was  coming  to  New  York  in  August. 
The  Russian  tour  had  been  a  brilliant  success.  They 
had  arranged  a  series  of  concerts  for  him  in  the  United 
States.  He  could  give  his  concerto  there.  It  was 
impossible  in  Russia,  Munich,  even  Berlin,  because  it 
I  was  distinctly  Jewish  in  theme — as  Jewish  as  the  Kcl 
Nidre,  and  as  somber.  They  would  have  none  of  it  in 
Europe.  Prejudice  was  too  strong.  But  in  America! 
He  was  happier  than  he  had  been  in  years.  Olga  ob- 
jected to  coming  to  America,  but  she  would  get  over 
that.  The  little  one  was  well,  and  she  was  learning 
to  talk.  Actually!  They  were  teaching  her  to  say 
Tante  Fanny. 

"Well!"   exclaimed  Fanny,  her  eyes   shining.     She 
read  bits  of  the  letter  aloud  to  Ella,    Ella  was  such  a 


FANNY   HERSELF  245 

satisfactory  sort  of  person  to  whom  to  read  a  letter 
aloud.  She  exclaimed  in  all  the  right  places.  Her  face 
was  as  radiant  as  Fanny's.  They  both  had  forgotten 
all  about  Fenger,  their  Chief.  But  they  had  been  in 
their  hotel  scarcely  a  half  hour,  and  Ella  had  not  done 
exclaiming  over  the  bag  that  Fanny  had  brought  her 
from  Paris,  when  his  telephone  call  came. 

He  wasted  very  little  time  on  preliminaries. 

"I'll  call  for  you  at  four.  We'll  drive  through  the 
park,  and  out  by  the  river,  and  have  tea  somewhere." 

"That  would  be  wonderful.  That  is,  if  Ella's  free. 
I'U  ask  her." 

"EUa.?" 

"Yes.  She's  right  here.  Hold  the  wire,  will  you.?" 
She  turned  away  from  the  telephone  to  face  Ella.  "It's 
Mr.  Fenger.  He  wants  to  take  us  both  driving  this 
afternoon.     You  can  go,  can't  you.^*" 

"I  certainly  caw,"  replied  Miss  Monahan,  with  what 
might  have  appeared  to  be  undue  force. 

Fanny  turned  back  to  the  telephone.  ''Yes,  thanks. 
We  can  both  go.    We'll  be  ready  at  four." 

Fanny  decided  that  Fenger's  muttered  reply  couldn't 
have  been  what  she  thought  it  was. 

Ella  busied  herself  with  the  unpacking  of  a  bag.  She 
showed  a  disposition  to  spoil  Fanny.  "You  haven't 
asked  after  your  friend,  Mr.  Heyl.  My  land !  If  I  had 
a  friend  like  that — " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Fanny,  vaguely.  "I  suppose  you 
and  he  are  great  chums  by  this  time.  He's  a  nice 
boy." 

"You  don't  suppose  anything  of  the  kind,"  Ella 
retorted,  crisply.  "That  boy,  as  you  call  him — and  it 
isn't  always  the  man  with  the  biggest  fists  that's  got 
the  most  fight  in  him — ^is  about  as  far  above  me  as — 
as — "  she  sat  down  on  the  floor,  ponderously,  beside  the 
open  bag,  and  gesticulated  with  a  hairbrush,  at  loss 
for  a  simile — "as  an  eagle  is  above  a  waddling  old 


246  FANNY   HERSELF 

duck.  No,  I  don't  mean  that,  either,  because  I  never 
did  think  much  of  the  eagle,  morally.  But  you  get  me. 
Not  that  he  knows  it,  or  shows  it.  Heyl,  I  mean.  Lord, 
no !  But  he's  got  something — something  kind  of  spir- 
itual in  him  that  makes  you  that  way,  too.  He  doesn't 
say  much,  either.  That's  the  funny  part  of  it.  I  do 
all  the  talking,  seems,  when  I'm  with  him.  But  I  find 
myself  saying  things  I  didn't  know  I  knew.  He  makes 
you  think  about  things  you're  afraid  to  face  by  your- 
self. Big  things.  Things  inside  of  you."  She  fell 
silent  a  moment,  sitting  cross-legged  before  the  bag. 
Then  she  got  up,  snapped  the  bag  shut,  and  bore  it 
across  the  room  to  a  corner.  "You  know  he's  gone,  I 
s'pose." 

"Gone.?" 

"To  those  mountains,  or  wherever  It  is  he  gets  that 
look  in  his  eyes  from.  That's  my  notion  of  a  job. 
They  let  him  go  for  the  whole  summer,  roaming  around 
being  a  naturalist,  just  so's  he'll  come  back  in  the 
winter." 

"And  the  column.?"  Fanny  asked.  *'Do  they  let  that 
go,  too.?" 

"I  guess  he's  going  to  do  some  writing  for  them  up 
there.  After  all,  he's  the  column.  It  doesn't  make 
much  difference  where  he  writes  from.  Did  you  know 
it's  being  syndicated  now,  all  over  the  country.?  Well, 
it  is.  That's  the  secret  of  its  success,  I  suppose.  It 
isn't  only  a  column  written  about  New  York  for  a  New 
York  paper.  It's  about  everything,  for  an3^body.  It's 
the  humanest  stuff.  And  he  isn't  afraid  of  anything. 
New  York's  crazy  about  him.  They  say  he's  getting 
a  salary  you  wouldn't  believe.  I'm  a  tongue-tied  old 
fool  when  I'm  with  him,  but  then,  he  likes  to  talk  about 
you,  mostly,  so  it  doesn't  matter." 

Fanny  turned  swiftly  from  the  dressing-table,  where 
she  was  taking  the  pins  out  of  her  vigorous,  abundant 
hair. 


FANNY   HERSELF  247 

**Whal  kind  of  thing  does  he  say  about  me,  Ellen 
girl.     H'm?     What  kind  of  thing?" 

"Abuse,  mostly.  I'll  be  running  along  to  my  own 
room  now.  I'll  be  out  for  lunch,  but  back  at  four,  for 
that  airing  Fenger's  so  wild  to  have  me  take.  If  I 
were  you  I'd  lie  down  for  an  hour,  till  you  get  your 
land-legs."  She  poked  her  head  in  at  the  door  again. 
"Not  that  you  look  as  if  you  needed  it.  You've  got  a 
different  look,  somehow.  Kind  of  rested.  After  all, 
there's  nothing  like  an  ocean  voyage." 

She  was  gone.  Fanny  stood  a  moment,  in  the  center 
of  the  room.  There  was  nothing  relaxed  or  inert  about 
her.  Had  you  seen  her  standing  there,  motionless,  you 
would  still  have  got  a  sense  of  action  from  her.  She 
looked  so  splendidly  alive.  She  walked  to  the  window, 
now,  and  stood  looking  down  upon  New  York  in  early 
June.  Summej"  had  not  yet  turned  the  city  into  a 
cauldron  of  stone  and  steel.  From  her  height  she  could 
glimpse  the  green  of  the  park,  with  a  glint  of  silver  in 
its  heart,  that  was  the  lake.  Her  mind  was  milling 
around,  aimlessly,  in  a  manner  far  removed  from  its 
usual  orderly  functioning.  Now  she  thought  of  Theo- 
dore, her  little  brother — his  promised  return.  It  had 
been  a  slow  and  painful  thing,  his  climb.  Perhaps  if 
she  had  been  more  ready  to  help,  if  she  had  not  always 
waited  until  he  asked  the  aid  that  she  might  have 
volunteered — she  thrust  that  thought  out  of  her  mind, 
rudely,  and  slammed  the  door  on  it.  .  .  .  Fenger.  He 
had  said,  "Damn !"  when  she  had  told  him  about  Ella. 
And  his  voice  had  been — well — she  pushed  that  thought 
outside  her  mind,  too.  ...  Clarence  Heyl.  .  .  .  "He 
makes  you  think  about  things  you're  afraid  to  face 
by  yourself.    Big  things.     Things  inside  of  you.  .  .  ." 

Fanny  turned  away  from  the  window.  She  decided 
she  must  be  tired,  after  all.  Because  here  she  was, 
with  everything  to  make  her  happy:  Theodore  coming 
home ;  her  foreign  trip  a  success ;  Ella  and  Fenger  to 


24,8  FANNY   HERSELF 

praise  her  and  make  much  of  her ;  a  drive  and  tea  this 
afternoon  (she  wasn't  above  these  creature  comforts) 
— and  still  she  felt  unexhilarated,  dull.  She  decided  to 
go  down  for  a  bit  of  lunch,  and  perhaps  a  stroll  of  ten 
or  fifteen  minutes,  just  to  see  what  Fifth  avenue  was 
showing.  It  was  half-past  one  when  she  reached  that 
ordinarily  well-regulated  thoroughfare.  She  found  its 
sidewalks  packed  solid,  up  and  down,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see,  with  a  quiet,  orderly,  expectant  mass  of 
people.  Squads  of  mounted  police  clattered  up  and 
down,  keeping  the  middle  of  the  street  cleared.  What- 
ever it  was  that  had  called  forth  that  incredible  mass, 
was  scheduled  to  proceed  uptown  from  far  downtown, 
and  that  very  soon.  Heads  were  turned  that  way. 
Fanny,  wedged  in  the  crowd,  stood  a-tiptoe,  but  she 
could  see  nothing.  It  brought  to  her  mind  the  Circus 
Day  of  her  Winnebago  childhood,  with  Elm  street 
packed  with  townspeople  and  farmers,  all  straining 
their  eyes  up  toward  Cherry  street,  the  first  turn  in 
the  line  of  march.  Then,  far  away,  the  blare  of  a  band. 
"Here  they  come!"  Just  then,  far  down  the  canyon 
of  Fifth  avenue,  sounded  the  cry  that  had  always 
swayed  Elm  street,  Winnebago.     *'Here  they  come !" 

"What  is  it?"  Fanny  asked  a  woman  against  whom 
she  found  herself  close-packed.  "What  are  they  wait- 
ing for?" 

"It's  the  suffrage  parade,"  replied  the  woman.  "The 
big  suffrage  parade.     Don't  you  know?" 

"No.  I  haven't  been  here."  Fanny  was  a  little  dis- 
appointed. The  crowd  had  surged  forward,  so  that  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  extricate  herself.  She  found 
herself  near  the  curb.  She  could  see  down  the  broad 
street  now,  and  below  Twenty-third  street  it  was  a  mov- 
ing, glittering  mass,  pennants,  banners,  streamers  fly- 
ing. The  woman  next  her  volunteered  additional 
information. 

"The  mayor  refused  permission  to  let  them  march. 


fanny;  herself         249 

But  they  fought  it,  and  they  say  it's  the  greatest  suf- 
frage parade  ever  held.     I'd  march  myself,  only — " 

"Only  what?" 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  scared  to,  I  think.  I'm  not  a 
New  Yorker." 

"Neither  am  I,"  said  Fanny.  Fanny  always  became 
friendly  with  the  woman  next  her  in  a  crowd.  That 
was  her  mother  in  her.  One  could  hear  the  music  of 
the  band,  now.  Fanny  glanced  at  her  watch.  It  was 
not  quite  two.  Oh,  well,  she  would  wait  and  see  some 
of  it.  Her  mind  was  still  too  freshly  packed  with 
European  impressions  to  receive  any  real  idea  of  the 
value  of  this  pageant,  she  told  herself.  She  knew  she 
did  not  feel  particularly  interested.     But  she  waited. 

Another  surging  forward.  It  was  no  longer,  "Here 
they  come !"  but,  "Here  they  are !" 

And  here  they  were. 

A  squad  of  mounted  pohce,  on  very  prancy  horses. 
The  men  looked  very  ruddy,  and  well  set-up  and  im- 
posing. Fanny  had  always  thrilled  to  anything  in 
uniform,  given  sufficient  numbers  of  them.  Another 
police  squad.  A  brass  band,  on  foot.  And  then,  in 
white,  on  a  snow-white  charger,  holding  a  white  banner 
aloft,  her  eyes  looking  straight  ahead,  her  face  very 
serious  and  youthful,  the  famous  beauty  and  suffrage 
leader,  Mildred  Inness.  One  of  the  few  famous  beauties 
who  actually  was  a  beauty.  And  after  that  women, 
women,  women!  Hundreds  of  them,  thousands  of  them, 
a  river  of  them  flowing  up  Fifth  avenue  to  the  park. 
More  bands.  More  horses.  Women !  Women !  They 
bore  banners.  This  section,  that  section.  Artists. 
School  teachers.  Lawyers.  Doctors.  Writers.  Women 
in  college  caps  and  gowns.  Women  in  white,  from 
shoes  to  hats.  Young  women.  Girls.  Gray-haired 
women.  A  woman  in  a  wheel  chair,  smiling.  A  man 
next  to  Fanny  began  to  jeer.  He  was  a  red-faced 
young  man,  with  a  coarse,  blotchy  skin,  and  thick  lips. 


250  FANNY   HERSELF 

He  smokeH  a  cigar,  and  called  to  the  women  in  a 
falsetto  voice,  "Hello,  Sadie!"  he  called.  "Hello,  kid!" 
And  the  women  marched  on,  serious-faced,  calm-eyed. 
There  came  floats;  elaborate  affairs,  with  girls  in 
Greek  robes.  Fanny  did  not  care  for  these.  More 
solid  ranks.  And  then  a  strange  and  pitiful  and  tragic 
<i    }  &nd   eloquent   group.      Their   banner   said,   "Garment 

r^:  '^  Workers.  Infants'  Wear  Section."  And  at  their  head 
marched  a  girl,  carrying  a  banner.  I  don't  know  how 
she  attained  that  honor.  I  think  she  must  have  been 
one  of  those  fiery,  eloquent  leaders  in  her  factory  clique. 
The  banner  she  carried  was  a  large  one,  and  it  flapped 
prodigiously  in  the  breeze,  and  its  pole  was  thick  and 
heavy.  She  was  a  very  small  girl,  even  in  that  group 
of  pale-faced,  under-sized,  under-fed  girls.  A  Russian 
•Jewess,  evidently.  Her  shoes  were  ludicrous.  They 
«2urled  up  at  the  toes,  and  the  heels  were  run  down. 
Her  dress  was  a  sort  of  parody  on  the  prevailing 
fashion.     But  on  her  face,  as  she  trudged  along,  hug- 

m:  ging  the  pole  of  the  great  pennant  that  flapped  in  the 
^Jv       breeze,  was  stamped  a  look! — ^well,  you  see  that  same 

^  look  in  some  pictures  of  Joan  of  Arc.  It  wasn't  merely 
a  look.  It  was  a  story.  It  was  tragedy.  It  was  the 
history  of  a  people.  You  saw  in  it  that  which  told  of 
centuries  of  oppression  in  Russia.  You  saw  eager 
groups  of  student  Intellectuals,  gathered  in  secret 
places  for  low-voiced,  fiery  talk.  There  was  in  it  the 
unspeakable  misery  of  Siberia.  It  spoke  eloquently  of 
■■  pogroms,  of  massacres,  of  Kiev  and  its  sister-horror, 
i  Kishineff.  You  saw  mean  and  narrow  streets,  and  care- 
fully darkened  windows,  and,  on  the  other  side  of  those 
windows  the  warm  yellow  glow  of  the  seven-branched 
Shabbos  light.  Above  this  there  shone  the  courage  of 
a  race  serene  in  the  knowledge, that  it  cannot  die.  And 
illuminating  all,  so  that  her  pinched  face,  beneath  the 
flapping  pennant,  was  the  rapt,  uplifted  countenance 
of  the  Crusader,  there  blazed  the  great  glow  of  hope. 


FANNY   HERSELF  251 

This  woman  movement,  spoken  of  so  glibly  as  Suffrage, 
was,  to  the  mind  of  this  over-read,  under-fed,  emotional, 
dreamy  little  Russian  garment  worker  the  glorious 
means  to  a  long  hoped  for  end.  She  had  idealized  it, 
with  the  imagery  of  her  kind.  She  had  endowed  it 
with  promise  that  it  would  never  actually  hold  for  her, 
perhaps.  And  so  she  marched  on,  down  the  great,  glit- 
tering avenue,  proudly  clutching  her  unwieldy  banner, 
a  stunted,  grotesque,  magnificent  figure.  More  than  a 
figure.     A  symbol. 

Fanny's  eyes  followed  her  until  she  passed  out  of 
sight.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  cheek,  and  her 
face  was  wet.  She  stood  there,  and  the  parade  went 
on,  endlessly,  it  seemed,  and  she  saw  it  through  a  hazec 
Bands.  More  bands.  Pennants.  Floats.  Women, 
Women.    Women. 

"I  always  cry  at  parades,"  said  Fanny,  to  the  womaa 
who  stood  next  her — the  woman  who  wanted  to  march, 
but  was  scared  to. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  woman.  "That's  all 
right."  And  she  laughed,  because  she  was  crying,  too. 
And  then  she  did  a  surprising  thing.  She  elbowed  her 
way  to  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  past  the  red-faced  man 
with  the  cigar,  out  to  the  street,  and  fell  into  line,  and 
marched  on  up  the  street,  shoulders  squared,  head  high. 

Fanny  glanced  down  at  her  watch.  It  was  quarter 
after  four.  With  a  little  gasp  she  turned  to  work 
her  way  through  the  close-packed  crowd.  It  was  an 
actual  physical  struggle,  from  which  she  emerged  dis- 
heveled, breathless,  uncomfortably  warm,  and  minus 
her  handkerchief,  but  she  had  gained  the  comparative 
quiet  of  the  side  street,  and  she  made  the  short  dis- 
tance that  lay  between  the  Avenue  and  her  hotel  a 
matter  of  little  more  than  a  minute.  In  the  hotel  cor- 
ridor stood  Ella  and  Fenger,  the  former  looking  wor- 
ried, the  latter  savage. 

"Where  in  the  world — "  began  Ella. 


252  FANNY   HERSELF 

"Caught  in  the  jam.  And  I  didn't  want  to  get  out. 
It  was — it  was — glorious!"  She  was  shaking  hands 
with  Fenger,  and  realizing  for  the  first  time  that  she 
must  be  looking  decidedly  sketchy  and  that  she  had 
lost  her  handkerchief.  She  fished  for  it  in  her  bag, 
hopelessly,  when  Fenger  released  her  hand.  He  had  not 
spoken.     Now  he  said: 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  eyes?" 

"I've  been  crying,"  Fanny  confessed  cheerfully. 

"Crying!" 

"The  parade.  There  was  a  little  girl  in  it — "  she 
stopped.  Fenger  would  not  be  interested  in  that  little 
girl.  Now  Clancy  would  have — but  Ella  broke  in  on 
that  thought. 

"I  guess  you  don't  realize  that  out  in  front  of  this 
hotel  there's  a  kind  of  a  glorified  taxi  waiting,  with 
the  top  rolled  back,  and  it's  been  there  half  an  hour. 
I  never  expect  to  see  the  time  when  I  could  enjoy 
keeping  a  taxi  waiting.     It  goes  against  me." 

"I'm  sorry.    Really.    Let's  go.    I'm  ready." 

"You  are  not.    Your  hair's  a  sight ;  and  those  eyes !" 

Fenger  put  a  hand  on  her  arm.  "Go  on  up  and 
powder  your  nose,  Miss  Brandeis.  And  don't  hurry.  I 
want  you  to  enjoy  this  drive." 

On  her  way  up  in  the  elevator  Fanny  thought,  "He 
has  lost  his  waistline.  Now,  that  couldn't  have  hap- 
pened in  a  month.  Queer  I  didn't  notice  it  before* 
And  he  looks  soft.     Not  enough  exercise." 

When  she  rejoined  them  she  was  freshly  Housed  and 
gloved  and  all  traces  of  the  tell-tale  red  had  vanished 
from  her  eyelids.  Fifth  avenue  was  impossible.  Their 
car  sped  up  Madison  avenue,  and  made  for  the  Park. 
The  Plaza  was  a  jam  of  tired  marchers.  They  dis- 
persed from  there,  but  there  seemed  no  end  to  the  line 
that  still  flowed  up  Fifth  avenue.  Fenger  seemed 
scared}^  to  see  it.  He  had  plunged  at  once  into  talk 
of  the  European  trip.     Fanny  gave  him  every  detail, 


FANNY   HERSELF  258 

omitting  nothing.  She  repeated  all  that  her  letters 
and  cables  had  told.  Fenger  was  more  excited  than 
she  had  ever  seen  him.  He  questioned,  cross-ques- 
tioned, criticized,  probed,  exacted  an  account  of  every 
conversation.  Usually  it  was  not  method  that  inter- 
ested him,  but  results.  Fanny,  having  accomplished  the 
thing  she  had  set  out  to  do,  had  lost  interest  in  it  now. 
The  actual  millions  so  glibly  bandied  in  the  Haynes- 
Cooper  plant  had  never  thrilled  her.  The  methods  by 
which  they  were  made  possible  had. 

Ella  had  been  listening  with  the  shrewd  comprehen- 
sion of  one  who  admires  the  superior  art  of  a  fellow 
craftsman. 

"I'll  say  this,  Mr.  Fenger.  If  I  could  make  you 
look  like  that,  by  going  to  Europe  and  putting  it  over 
those  foreign  boys,  I'd  feel  I'd  earned  a  year's  salary 
right  there,  and  quit.  Not  to  speak  of  the  cross-exam- 
ination you're  putting  her  through." 

Fenger  laughed,  a  little  self-consciously.  "It's  just 
that  I  want  to  be  sure  it's  real.  I  needn't  tell  you  how 
important  this  trick  is  that  Miss  Brandeis  has  just 
turned."  He  turned  to  Fanny,  with  a  boyish  laugh. 
"Now  don't  pose.  You  know  you  can't  be  as  bored 
as  you  look." 

"Anyway,"  put  in  Ella,  briskly,  "I  move  that  the 
witness  step  down.  She  may  not  be  bored,  but  she 
certainly  must  be  tired,  and  she's  beginning  to  look  it. 
Just  lean  back,  Fanny,  and  let  the  green  of  this  park 
soak  in.  At  that,  it  isn't  so  awfully  green,  when  you 
get  right  close,  except  that  one  stretch  of  meadow. 
Kind  of  ugly.  Central  Park,  isn't  it?    Bare." 

Fanny  sat  forward.  There  was  more  sparkle  in  her 
face  than  at  any  time  during  the  drive.  They  were 
skimming  along  those  green-shaded  drives  that  are  so 
sophisticatedly  sylvan. 

"I  used  to  think  it  was  bare,  too,  and  bony  as  an 
old  maid,  with  no  soft  cuddly  places  like  the  parks  at 


254  FANNY   HERSELF 

home ;  no  gracious  green  stretches,  and  no  rose  gardens. 
But  somehow,  it  grows  on  you.  The  reticence  of  it. 
And  that  stretch  of  meadow  near  the  Mall,  in  the  late 
afternoon,  with  the  mist  on  it,  and  the  sky  faintly  pink, 
and  that  electric  sign — Somebody's  Tires  or  other — 
winking  off  and  on — " 

"You're  a  queer  child,"  interrupted  Fenger.  "As 
wooden  as  an  Indian  while  talking  about  a  million-a- 
year  deal,  and  lyrical  over  a  combination  of  electric 
sign,  sunset,  and  moth-eaten  park.  Oh,  well,  perhaps 
that's  what  makes  you  as  you  are." 

Even  Ella  looked  a  little  startled  at  that. 

They  had  tea  at  Claremont,  at  a  table  overlooking 
the  river  and  the  Palisades.  Fenger  was  the  kind  of 
man  to  whom  waiters  always  give  a  table  overlooking 
anything  that  should  be  overlooked.  After  tea  they 
drove  out  along  the  river  and  came  back  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening.  Fanny  was  very  quiet  now.  Fenger  fol- 
lowed her  mood.  Ella  sustained  the  conversation,  some- 
what doggedly.  It  was  almost  seven  when  they  reached 
the  plaza  exit.  And  there  Fanny,  sitting  forward  sud- 
denly, gave  a  little  cry. 

"Why — they're  marching  yet!"  she  said,  and  her 
voice  was  high  with  wonder.  "They're  marching  yet! 
All  the  time  we've  been  driving  and  teaing,  they've 
been  marching." 

And  so  they  had.  Thousands  upon  thousands,  they 
had  flowed  along  as  relentlessly,  and  seemingly  as  end- 
lessly as  a  river.  They  were  marching  yet.  For  six 
hours  the  thousands  had  poured  up  that  street,  making 
it  a  moving  mass  of  white.  And  the  end  was  not  yet. 
What  pen,  and  tongue,  and  sense  of  justice  had  failed 
to  do,  they  were  doing  now  by  sheer,  crude  force  of 
numbers.  The  red-faced  hooligan,  who  had  stood  next 
to  Fanny  in  the  crowd  hours  before,  had  long  ago 
ceased  his  jibes  and  slunk  away,  bored,  if  not  impressed. 
After  all,  one  might  jeer  at  ten,  or  fifty,  or  a  hundred 


FANNY   HERSELF  255 

women,  or  even  B.ye  hundred.  But  not  at  forty  thou- 
sand. 

Their  car  turned  down  Madison  Avenue,  and  Fenger 
twisted  about  for  a  last  look  at  the  throng  in  the  plaza. 
He  was  plainly  impressed.  The  magnitude  of  the  thing 
appealed  to  him.  To  a  Haynes-Cooper-trained  mind, 
forty  thousand  women,  marching  for  whatever  the 
cause,  must  be  impressive.  Forty  thousand  of  any- 
thing had  the  respect  of  Michael  Fenger.  His  eyes 
narrowed,  thoughtfully. 

"They  seem  to  have  put  it  over,"  he  said.  "And  yet, 
what's  the  idea  ?  Oh,  I'm  for  suffrage,  of  course.  Nat- 
urally. And  all  those  thousands  of  women,  in  white — 
still,  a  thing  as  huge  as  this  parade  has  to  be  reduced 
to  a  common  denominator,  to  be  really  successful.  If 
somebody  could  take  the  whole  thing,  boil  it  down,  and 
make  the  country  see  what  this  huge  demonstration 
stands  for." 

Fanny  leaned  forward  suddenly.  *'TelI  the  man  to 
stop.     I  want  to  get  out." 

Fenger  and  Ella  stared.  "What  for?"  But  Fenger 
obeyed. 

"I  want  to  get  something  at  this  stationer's  shop." 
She  had  jumped  down  almost  before  the  motor  had 
stopped  at  the  curb. 

"But  let  me  get  it." 

"No.  You  can't.  Wait  here."  She  disappeared 
within  the  shop.  She  was  back  in  five  minutes,  a  flat, 
loosely  wrapped  square  under  her  arm.  "Cardboard," 
she  explained  briefly,  in  answer  to  their  questions. 

Fenger,  about  to  leave  them  at  their  hotel,  presented 
his  plans  for  the  evening.  Fanny,  looking  up  at  him, 
her  head  full  of  other  plans,  thought  he  looked  and 
sounded  very  much  like  Big  Business.  And,  for  the 
moment  at  least,  Fanny  Brandeis  loathed  Big  Business, 
and  all  that  it  stood  for. 

"It's  almost  seven,"  Fenger  was  saying.    "We'll  be 


256  FANNY   HERSELF 

rubes  in  New  York,  this  evening.  You  girls  will  just 
have  time  to  freshen  up  a  bit — I  suppose  you  want  to 
— and  then  we'll  have  dinner,  and  go  to  the  theater, 
and  to  supper  afterward.    What  do  you  want  to  see?" 

Ella  looked  at  Fanny.  And  Fanny  shook  her  head, 
"Thanks.    You're  awfully  kind.    But— no." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Fenger,  gruffly. 

"Perhaps  because  I'm  tired.  And  there's  something 
else  I  must  do." 

Ella  looked  relieved.  Fenger's  eyes  bored  down  upon 
Fanny,  but  she  seemed  not  to  feel  them.  She  held  out 
her  hand. 

"You're  going  back  to-morrow?"  Fenger  asked. 
"I'm  not  leaving  until  Thursday." 

"To-morrow,  with  Ella.  Good-by.  It's  been  a  gloria 
ous  drive.     I  feel  quite  rested." 

"You  just  said  you  were  tired." 

The  elevator  door  clanged,  shutting  out  the  sight 
of  Fenger's  resentful  frown. 

"He's  as  sensitive  as  a  soubrette,"  said  Ella.  "I'm 
glad  you  decided  not  to  go  out.  I'm  dead,  myself.  A 
kimono  for  the  rest  of  the  evening." 

Fanny  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  her.  With  a  nod  she 
left  Ella,  and  entered  her  own  room.  There  she  wasted 
no  time.  She  threw  her  hat  and  coat  on  the  bed.  Her 
suitcase  was  on  the  baggage  stand.  She  turned  on  all 
the  lights,  swung  the  closed  suitcase  up  to  the  table, 
shoved  the  table  against  the  wall,  up-ended  the  suit- 
case so  that  its  leather  side  presented  a  smooth  sur- 
face, and  propped  a  firm  sheet  of  white  cardboard 
against  the  impromptu  rack.  She  brought  her  chair 
up  close,  fumbled  in  her  bag  for  the  pens  she  had  just 
purchased.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  blank  white  surface 
of  the  paper.  The  table  was  the  kind  that  has  a  sub- 
shelf.  It  prevented  Fanny  from  crossing  her  legs  under 
it,  and  that  bothered  her.  While  she  fitted  her  pens, 
jind  blocked  her  paper,  she  kept  on  barking  her  shins 


FANNY   HERSELF  257 

in  unconscious  protest  against  the  uncomfortable  con- 
ditions under  which  she  must  work. 

She  sat  staring  at  the  paper  now,  after  having 
marked  it  off  into  blocks,  with  a  pencil.  She  got  up, 
and  walked  across  the  room,  aimlessly,  and  stood  there 
a  moment,  and  came  back.  She  picked  up  a  thread  on 
the  floor.  Sat  down  again.  Picked  up  her  pencil,  rolled 
it  a  moment  in  her  palms,  then,  catching  her  toes  be- 
hind either  foreleg  of  her  chair,  in  an  attitude  that 
was  as  workmanlike  as  it  was  ungraceful,  she  began 
to  draw,  nervously,  tentatively  at  first,  but  gaining  in 
firmness  and  assurance  as  she  went  on. 

If  you  had  been  standing  behind  her  chair  you  would 
have  seen,  emerging  miraculously  from  the  white  sur- 
face under  Fanny's  pencil,  a  thin,  undersized  little  figure 
in  sleazy  black  and  white,  whose  face,  under  the  cheap 
hat,  was  upturned  and  rapturous.  Her  skirts  were 
wind-blown,  and  the  wind  tugged,  too,  at  the  banner 
whose  pole  she  hugged  so  tightly  in  her  arms.  Dimly 
you  could  see  the  crowds  that  lined  the  street  on  either 
side.  Vaguely,  too,  you  saw  the  faces  and  stunted  fig- 
ures of  the  little  group  of  girls  she  led.  But  she,  the 
central  figure,  stood  out  among  all  the  rest.  Fanny 
Brandeis,  the  artist,  and  Fanny  Brandeis,  the  salesman, 
combined  shrewdly  to  omit  no  telling  detail.  The 
wrong  kind  of  feet  in  the  wrong  kind  of  shoes;  the 
absurd  hat ;  the  shabby  skirt — every  bit  of  grotesquerie 
was  there,  serving  to  emphasize  the  glory  of  the  face. 
Fanny  Brandeis'  face,  as  the  figure  grew,  line  by  line, 
was  a  glorious  thing,  too. 

She  was  working  rapidly.  She  laid  down  her  pencil, 
now,  and  leaned  back,  squinting  her  eyes  critically.  She 
looked  grimly  pleased.  Her  hair  was  rather  rumpled, 
and  her  cheeks  very  pink.  She  took  up  her  pen,  now, 
and  began  to  ink  her  drawing  with  firm  black  strokes. 
As  she  worked  a  little  crow  of  delight  escaped  her — the 
same  absurd  crow  of  triumph  that  had  sounded  that 


258  FANNY   HERSELI! 

day  in  Winnebago,  years  and  years  before,  when  she,  a 
school  girl  in  a  red  tarn  o'  shanter,  had  caught  the 
likeness  of  Schabelitz,  the  peasant  boy,  under  the  exte- 
rior of  Schabelitz,  the  famous. 

There  sounded  a  smart  little  double  knock  at  her 
door.  Fanny  did  not  heed  it.  She  did  not  hear  it.  Her 
toes  were  caught  behind  the  chair-legs  again.  She  was 
slumped  down  on  the  middle  of  her  spine.  She  had 
brought  the  table,  with  its  ridiculously  up-ended  suit- 
case, very  near,  so  that  she  worked  with  a  minimum  of 
effort.  The  door  opened.  Fanny  did  not  turn  her 
head.  Ella  Monahan  came  in,  yawning.  She  was  wear- 
ing an  expensive  looking  silk  kimono  that  fell  in 
straight,  simple  folds,  and  gave  a  certain  majesty  to 
her  ample  figure. 

"Well,  what  in  the  world — "  she  began,  and  yawned 
again,  luxuriously.  She  stopped  behind  Fanny's  chair 
and  glanced  over  her  shoulder.  The  yawn  died.  She 
craned  her  neck  a  little,  and  leaned  forward.  And  the 
little  girl  went  marching  by,  in  her  cheap  and  crooked 
shoes,  and  her  short  and  sleazy  skirt,  with  the  banner 
tugging,  tugging  in  the  breeze.  Fanny  Brandeis  had 
done  her  with  that  economy  of  line,  and  absence  of  sen- 
timentality which  is  the  test  separating  the  artist  from 
the  draughtsman. 

Silence,  except  for  the  scratching  of  Fanny  Bran- 
deis's  pen. 

r       "Why— the  poor  little  kike!"  said  Ella  Monahan. 
Then,  after  another  moment  of  silence,  "I  didn't  know 

; — you  could  draw  like  that." 

Fanny  laid  down  her  pen.  "Like  what  ?"  She  pushed 
back  her  chair,  and  rose,  stiffly.  The  drawing,  still  wet, 
was  propped  up  against  the  suitcase.  Fanny  walked 
across  the  room.  Ella  dropped  into  her  chair,  so  that 
when  Fanny  came  back  to  the  table  it  was  she  who 
looked  over  Ella's  shoulder.  Into  Ella's  shrewd  and 
heavy  face  there  had  come  a  certain  look. 


FANNY   HERSELF  259 

**They  don't  get  a  square  deal,  do  they  ?  They  don't 
get  a  square  deal." 

The  two  looked  at  the  girl  a  moment  longer,  in 
silence.  Then  Fanny  went  over  to  the  bed,  and  picked 
up  her  hat  and  coat.  She  smoothed  her  hair,  deftly, 
powdered  her  nose  with  care,  and  adjusted  her  hat  at 
the  smart  angle  approved  by  the  Galeries  Lafayette. 
She  came  back  to  the  table,  picked  up  her  pen,  and  be- 
neath the  drawing  wrote,  in  large  print: 

THE  MARCHER. 

She  picked  up  the  drawing,  still  wet,  opened  the  door, 
and  with  a  smile  at  the  bewildered  Ella,  was  gone. 

It  was  after  eight  o'clock  when  she  reached  the  Star 
building.  She  asked  for  Lasker's  office,  and  sent  in  her 
card.  Heyl  had  told  her  that  Lasker  was  always  at 
his  desk  at  eight.  Now,  Fanny  Brandeis  knew  that  the 
average  young  woman,  standing  outside  the  office  of  a 
man  like  Lasker,  unknown  and  at  the  mercy  of  office 
boy  or  secretary,  continues  to  stand  outside  until  she 
leaves  in  discouragement.  But  Fanny  knew,  too,  that 
she  was  not  an  average  young  woman.  She  had,  on 
the  surface,  an  air  of  authority  and  distinction.  She 
had  that  quiet  assurance  of  one  accustomed  to  defer- 
ence. She  had  youth,  and  beauty,  and  charm.  She 
had  a  hat  and  suit  bought  in  Paris,  France;  and  a  sec- 
retary is  only  human. 

Carl  Lasker's  private  office  was  the  bare,  bright, 
newspaper-strewn  room  of  a  man  who  is  not  only  a 
newspaper  proprietor,  but  a  newspaper  man.  There's 
a  difference.  Carl  Lasker  had  sold  papers  on  the  street 
when  he  was  ten.  He  had  slept  on  burlap  sacks,  paper 
stuffed,  in  the  basement  of  a  newspaper  office.  Ink 
flowed  with  the  blood  in  his  veins.  He  could  operate  a 
press.  He  could  manipulate  a  linotype  machine  (that 
almost  humanly  intelligent  piece  of  mechanisxiA).     He 


260  FANNY   HERSELF 

could  make  up  a  paper  single  handed,  and  had  done  it. 
He  knew  the  newspaper  game,  did  Carl  Lasker,  from 
the  composing  room  to  the  street,  and  he  was  a  very 
great  man  in  his  line.  And  so  he  was  easy  to  reach,  and 
simple  to  talk  to,  as  are  all  great  men. 

A  stocky  man,  decidedly  handsome,  surprisingly 
young,  well  dressed,  smooth  shaven,  direct. 

Fanny  entered.  Lasker  laid  down  her  card.  "Bran- 
deis.  That's  a  good  name."  He  extended  his  handl 
He  wore  evening  clothes,  with  a  white  flower  in  his 
buttonhole.  He  must  have  just  come  from  a  dinner,  or 
he  was  to  attend  a  late  affair,  somewhere.  Perhaps 
Fanny,  taken  aback,  unconsciously  showed  her  sur- 
prise, because  Lasker  grinned,  as  he  waved  her  to  a 
chair.     His  quick  mind  had  interpreted  her  thought. 

"Sit  down,  Miss  Brandeis.  You  think  I'm  gotten  up 
like  the  newspaper  man  in  a  Richard  Harding  Davis 
short  story,  don't  you.''    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Fanny  wasted  no  words.  "I  saw  the  parade  this 
afternoon.  I  did  a  picture.  I  think  it's  good.  If  you 
think  so  too,  I  wish  you'd  use  it." 

She  laid  it,  face  up,  on  Lasker's  desk.  Lasker  picked 
it  up  in  his  two  hands,  held  it  off,  and  scrutinized  it. 
All  the  drama  in  the  world  is  concentrated  in  the  con- 
fines of  a  newspaper  office  every  day  in  the  year,  and 
so  you  hear  very  few  dramatic  exclamations  in  such  a 
place.  Men  like  Lasker  do  not  show  emotion  when 
impressed.  It  is  too  wearing  on  the  mechanism.  Be- 
sides, they  are  trained  to  self-control.  So  Lasker  said, 
now: 

"Yes,  I  think  it's  pretty  good,  too."  Then,  raising 
his  voice  to  a  sudden  bellow,  "Boy!"  He  handed  the 
drawing  to  a  boy,  gave  a  few  brief  orders,  and  turned 
back  to  Fanny.  "To-morrow  morning  every  other 
paper  in  New  York  will  have  pictures  showing  Mildred 
Inness,  the  beauty,  on  her  snow-white  charger,  or 
Sophronisba  A.  Bannister,  A.B.,  Ph.D.,  in  her  cap  and 


FANNY,   HERSELF  261 

gown,  or  Mrs.  William  Van  der  Welt  as  Liberty.  We'll 
have  that  little  rat  with  the  banner,  and  it'll  get  'em. 
They'll  talk  about  it."  His  eyes  narrowed  a  little. 
"Do  you  always  get  that  angle.?" 

"Yes." 

"There  isn't  a  woman  cartoonist  in  New  York  who 
does  that  human  stuff.     Did  you  know  that.?" 

"Yes." 

"Want  a  job?" 

"N-no."  ^  ^  1 

His  knowing  eye  missed  no  detail  of  the  suit,  the  hat,  \ 
the  gloves,  the  shoes. 

"What's  your  salary  now.?" 

"Ten  thousand." 

"Satisfied.?" 

"No." 

"You've  hit  the  heart  of  that  parade.  I  don't  know 
whether  you  could  do  that  every  day,  or  not.  But  if 
you  struck  twelve  half  the  time,  it  would  be  enough. 
When  you  want  a  job,  come  back." 

"Thanks,"  said  Fanny  quietly.  And  held  out  her 
hand. 

She  returned  in  the  subway.  It  was  a  Bronx  train, 
full  of  sagging  faces,  lusterless  eyes,  grizzled  beards ;  of 
heavy,  black-eyed  girls  in  soiled  white  shoes ;  of  stoop- 
shouldered  men,  poring  over  newspapers  in  Hebrew 
script;  of  smells  and  sounds  and  glaring  light. 

And  though  to-morrow  would  bring  its  reaction,  and 
common  sense  would  have  her  again  in  its  cold  grip, 
she  was  radiant  to-night  and  glowing  with  the  exalta- 
tion that  comes  with  creation.  And  over  and  over  a 
voice  within  her  was  saying: 

These  are  my  people !    These  are  my  people ! 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

THE  ship  that  brought  Theodore  Brandeis  to 
America  was  the  last  of  its  kind  to  leave  German 
ports  for  years.  The  day  after  he  sailed  from  Bremen 
came  the  war.  Fanny  Brandeis  was  only  one  of  the 
millions  of  Americans  who  refused  to  accept  the  idea 
of  war.  She  took  it  as  a  personal  affront.  It  was 
uncivilized,  it  was  old  fashioned,  it  was  inconvenient. 
Especially  inconvenient.  She  had  just  come  from 
Europe,  where  she  had  negotiated  a  million-dollar  deal. 
War  would  mean  that  she  could  not  get  the  goods  or- 
dered.    Consequently  there  could  be  no  war. 

Theodore  landed  the  first  week  in  August.  Fanny 
stole  two  days  from  the  ravenous  bins  to  meet  him  in 
New  York.  I  think  she  must  have  been  a  very  love- 
hungry  woman  in  the  years  since  her  mother's  death. 
She  had  never  admitted  it.  But  only  emotions  denied 
to  the  point  of  starvation  could  have  been  so  shaken, 
now  at  the  thought  of  the  feast  before  them.  She  had 
trained  herself  to  think  of  him  as  Theodore  the  selfish, 
Theodore  the  callous,  Theodore  the  voracious.  "An 
unsuccessful  genius,"  she  told  herself.  "He'll  be  im- 
possible.   They're  bad  enough  when  they're  successful." 

But  now  her  eyes,  her  thoughts,  her  longings,  her 
long-pent  emotions  were  straining  toward  the  boat 
whose  great  prow  was  looming  toward  her,  a  terrifying 
bulk.  The  crowd  awaiting  the  ship  was  enormous.  A 
dramatic  enough  scene  at  any  time,  the  great  Hoboken 
pier  this  morning  was  filled  with  an  unrehearsed  mob, 
anxious,  thrilled,  hysterical.  The  morning  papers  had 
carried  wireless  news  that  the  ship  had  been  chased  by  a 


FANNY   HERSELF  263 

French  gunboat  and  had  escaped  only  through  the 
timely  warning  of  the  Dresden,  a  German  gunboat. 
That  had  added  the  last  fillip  to  an  already  tense  situa- 
tion. Tears  were  streaming  down  half  the  faces  up- 
turned toward  the  crowded  decks.  And  from  every 
side  : 

"Do  you  see  her?" 

"That's  Jessie.    There  she  is !    Jessie !" 

"Heh !  Jim,  old  boy !    Come  on  down !" 

Fanny's  eyes  were  searching  the  packed  rails. 
"Ted!"  she  called,  and  choked  back  a  sob.  "Teddy!" 
Still  she  did  not  see  him.  She  was  searching,  woman- 
like, for  a  tall,  blondish  boy,  with  a  sulky  mouth,  and 
humorous  eyes,  and  an  unruly  lock  of  hair  that  would 
insist  on  escaping  from  the  rest  and  straggling  down 
over  his  forehead.  I  think  she  was  even  looking  for  a 
boy  with  a  violin  in  his  arms.  A  boy  in  knickers. 
Women  lose  all  sense  of  time  and  proportion  at  such 
times.  Still  she  did  not  see  him.  The  passengers  were 
filing  down  the  gangplank  now ;  rushing  down  as  quickly 
as  the  careful  hands  of  the  crew  would  allow  them, 
and  hurling  themselves  into  the  arms  of  friends  and 
family  crowded  below.  Fanny  strained  her  eyes  toward 
that  narrow  passageway,  anxious,  hopeful,  fearful, 
heartsick.  For  the  moment  Olga  and  the  baby  did  not 
exist  for  her.     And  then  she  saw  him. 

She  saw  him  through  an  unimaginable  disguise.  She 
saw  him,  and  knew  him  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
fair-haired,  sulky,  handsome  boy  had  vanished,  and  in' 
his  place  walked  a  man.  His  hair  was  close-cropped, 
German-fashion;  his  face  careworn  and  older  than  she 
had  ever  thought  possible;  his  bearing,  his  features, 
his  whole  personality  stamped  with  an  unmistakable 
distinction.  And  his  clothes  were  appallingly,  incon- 
ceivably German.  So  she  saw  him,  and  he  was  her 
brother,  and  she  was  his  sister,  and  she  stretched  out 
her  arms  to  him. 


264  FANNY   HERSELF 

"Teddy !"  She  hugged  him  close,  her  face  buried  in 
his  shoulder.  "Teddy,  you — you  Spitzhube  you !"  She 
laughed  at  that,  a  little  hysterically.  "Not  that  I  know 
what  a  Spitzhube  is,  but  it's  the  Germanest  word  I 
can  think  of."  That  shaven  head.  Those  trousers. 
That  linen.  The  awful  boots.  The  tie !  "Oh,  Teddy, 
and  you're  the  Germanest  thing  I  ever  saw."  She 
kissed  him  again,  rapturously. 

He  kissed  her,  too,  wordlessly  at  first.  They  moved' 
aside  a  little,  out  of  the  crowd.  Then  he  spoke  for 
the  first  time. 

"God!  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Fanny."  There  was 
tragedy,  not  profanation  in  his  voice.  His  hand 
gripped  hers.  He  turned,  and  now,  for  the  first  time, 
Fanny  saw  that  at  his  elbow  stood  a  buxom,  peasant 
woman,  evidently  a  nurse,  and  in  her  arms  a  child.  A 
child  with  Molly  Brandeis'  mouth,  and  Ferdinand 
Brandeis'  forehead,  and  Fanny  Brandeis'  eyes,  and 
Theodore  Brandeis'  roseleaf  skin,  and  over,  and  above 
all  these,  weaving  in  and  out  through  the  whole,  an 
expression  or  cast — a  vague,  undefinable  thing  which 
we  call  a  resemblance — that  could  only  have  come  from 
the  woman  of  the  picture,  Theodore  Brandeis'  wife, 
Olga. 

"Why — it's  the  baby !"  cried  Fanny,  and  swung  her 
out  of  the  nurse's  protesting  arms.  Such  a  German- 
looking  baby.  Such  an  adorably  German-looking  baby. 
"Du  kleine,  du!"  Fanny  kissed  the  roseleaf  cheek. 
"Du  siiszes — "  She  turned  suddenly  to  Theodore. 
"Olga— Where's  Olga?" 

"She  did  not  come." 

Fanny  tightened  her  hold  of  the  little  squirming 
bundle  in  her  arms.     "Didn't  come?" 

Theodore  shook  his  head,  dumbly.  In  his  eyes  was 
an  agony  of  pain.  And  suddenly  all  those  inexplicable 
things  in  his  face  were  made  clear  to  Fanny.  She 
placed  the  little  Mizzi  in  the  nurse's  arms  again.  "Then 


FANNY   HERSELF  265 

we'll  go,  dear.     They  won't  be   a  minute  over  youi 
trunks,  I'm  sure.     Just  follow  me." 

Her  arm  was  linked  through  Theodore's.  Her  hand 
was  on  his.  Her  head  was  up.  Her  chin  was  thrust 
out,  and  she  never  knew  how  startlingly  she  resembled 
the  Molly  Brandeis  who  used  to  march  so  bravely  down 
Norris  street  on  her  way  to  Brandeis'  Bazaar.  She 
was  facing  a  situation,  and  she  recognized  it.  There 
was  about  her  an  assurance,  a  composure,  a  blithe  capa- 
bility that  imparted  itself  to  the  three  bewildered  and 
helpless  ones  in  her  charge.  Theodore  felt  it,  and  the 
strained  look  in  his  face  began  to  lift  just  a  little.  The 
heavy-witted  peasant  woman  felt  it,  and  trudged  along, 
cheerfully.  The  baby  in  her  arms  seemed  to  sense  it, 
and  began  to  converse  volubly  and  unintelligibly  with 
the  blue  uniformed  customs  inspector. 

They  were  out  of  the  great  shed  in  an  incredibly 
short  time.  Fanny  seemed  equal  to  every  situation. 
She  had  taken  the  tube  to  Hoboken,  but  now  she  found 
a  commodious  open  car,  and  drove  a  shrewd  bargain 
with  the  chauffeur.  She  bundled  the  three  into  it.  Of 
the  three,  perhaps  Theodore  seemed  the  most  be- 
wildered and  helpless.  He  clung  to  his  violin  and 
Fanny. 

"I  feel  like  an  immigrant,"  he  said.  "Fan,  you're  a 
wonder.  You  don't  know  how  much  you  look  and  act 
like  mother.    I've  been  watching  you.    It's  startling."      f 

Fanny  laughed  and  took  his  hand,  and  held  his  hand 
up  to  her  breast,  and  crushed  it  there.  "And  you  look  ^ 
like  an  illustration  out  of  the  Fliegende  Blaetter,  It 
isn't  only  your  clothes.  Your  face  is  German.  As  for ; 
Mizzi  here — "  she  gathered  the  child  in  her  arms  again 
— "you've  never  explained  that  name  to  me.  Why,  by 
the  way,  Mizzi?    Of  all  the  names  in  the  world." 

Theodore  smiled  a  wry  little  smile.  "Mizzi  is  named 
after  Olga's  chum.  You  see,  in  Vienna  every  other — 
well,  chorus  girl  I  suppose  you'd  call  them — is  named 


266  FANNY   HERSELF 

Mizzi.  Like  all  the  Gladyses  and  Flossies  here  in 
America.     Well,  Olga's  special  friend  Mizzi — " 

"I  see,"  said  Fanny  quietly.  "Well,  anything's  bet- 
ter than  Fanny.  Always  did  make  me  think  of  an  old 
white  horse."  And  at  that  the  small  German  person  in 
her  arms  screwed  her  mouth  into  a  fascinating  bunch, 
and  then  unscrewed  it  and,  having  made  these  prepa- 
rations said,  "Tante  Fanny.    Shecago.    Tante  Fanny." 

"Why,  Mizzi  Brandeis,  you  darling!  Teddy,  did 
you  hear  that !  She  said  'Tante  Fanny'  and  'Chicago' 
just  as  plainly!" 

"Did  I  hear  it.?  Have  I  heard  anything  else  for 
weeks  ?" 

The  plump  person  on  the  opposite  seat,  who  had  been 
shaking  her  head  violently  all  this  time  here  threatened 
to  burst  if  not  encouraged  to  speak.  Fanny  nodded  to 
her.     Whereupon  the  flood  broke. 

"Wunderbar,  nicht  war!  Ich  kiiss'  die  handt, 
gnadiges  Fraulein."  She  actually  did  it,  to  Fanny's 
consternation.  "Ich  hab'  ihr  das  gelemt,  Gnadige. 
Selbst.  1st  es  nicht  ganz  entziickend!  Tante  Fanny. 
Auch  Shecago," 

Fanny  nodded  a  number  of  times,  first  up  and  down, 
signifying  assent,  then  sideways,  signifying  unbounded 
wonder  and  admiration.  She  made  a  gigantic  effori^ 
to  summon  her  forgotten  German. 

'^Was  ist  Ihre  NaTjie?"  she  managed  to  ask. 

"Otti." 

"Oh,  my!"  exclaimed  Fanny,  weakly.*  "Mizzi  and 
Otti.  It  sounds  like  the  first  act  of  the  'Merry  Wid- 
ow.' "  She  turned  to  Theodore.  "I  wish  you'd  sit  back, 
and  relax,  and  if  you  must  clutch  that  violin  case, 
do  it  more  comfortably.  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  me  a 
thing,  now.  New  York  is  ghastly  in  August.  We'll 
get  a  train  out  of  here  to-morrow.  My  apartment  in 
Chicago  is  cool,  and  high,  and  quiet,  and  the  lake  is  in 
the  front  yard,  practically.     To-night,  perhaps,  we'll 


FANNY   HERSELF  267 

talk  about — things.  And,  oh,  Teddy,  how  glad  I  am 
to  see  you — to  have  you — to — "  she  put  out  a  hand  and 
patted  his  thin  cheek — "to  touch  you." 

And  at  that  the  man  became  a  boy  again.  His  face 
worked  a  moment,  painfully  and  then  his  head  came 
down  in  her  lap  that  held  the  baby,  and  so  she  had  them 
both  for  a  moment,  one  arm  about  the  child,  one  hand 
smoothing  the  boy's  close-cropped  hair.  And  in  that 
moment  she  was  more  splendidly  maternal  than  either 
of  the  women  who  had  borne  these  whom  she  now 
comforted. 

It  was  Fanny  who  attended  to  the  hotel  rooms,  to 
the  baby's  comfort,  to  the  railroad  tickets,  to  the  order- 
ing of  the  meals.  Theodore  was  like  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land.    Not  only  that,  he  seemed  dazed. 

*'We'll  have  it  out  to-night,"  Fanny  said  to  herself. 
"He'll  never  get  that  look  off  his  face  until  he  has  told 
it  all.    I  knew  she  was  a  beast." 

She  made  him  lie  down  while  she  attended  to  sched- 
ules, tickets,  berths.  She  was  gone  for  two  hours. 
When  she  returned  she  found  him  looking  amused,  ter- 
rified and  helpless,  all  at  once,  while  three  men  reporters 
and  one  woman  special  writer  bombarded  him  with  ques- 
tions. The  woman  had  brought  a  staff  artist  with  her, 
and  he  was  now  engaged  in  making  a  bungling  sketch 
of  Theodore's  face,  with  its  ludicrous  expression. 

Fanny  sensed  the  situation  and  saved  it.  She  hadn't 
sold  goods  all  these  years  without  learning  the  value 
of  advertising.  She  came  forward  now,  graciously  (but 
not  too  graciously).  Theodore  looked  relieved.  Al- 
ready he  had  learned  that  one  might  lean  on  this  sister 
who  was  so  capable,  so  bountifully  alive. 

"Teddy,  you're  much  too  tired  to  talk.  Let  me  talk 
for  you." 

"My  sister.  Miss  Brandeis,"  said  Teddy,  and  waved 
a  rather  feeble  hand  in  an  inclusive  gesture  at  the  in- 
terrogatory five. 


268  FANNY   HERSELF 

Fanny  smiled.  "Do  sit  down,"  she  said,  "all  of  you. 
Tell  me,  how  did  you  happen  to  get  on  my  brother's 
trail?" 

One  of  the  men  explained.  "We  had  a  list  of  ship's 
passengers,  of  course.  And  we  knew  that  Mr.  Brandeis 
was  a  German  violinist.  And  then  the  story  of  the  ship 
being  chased  by  a  French  boat.  We  just  missed  him 
down  at  the  pier — " 

"But  he  isn't  a  German  violinist,"  interrupted  Fanny. 
"Please  get  that  straight.  He's  American.  He  is  the 
American  violinist — or  will  be,  as  soon  as  his  concert 
tour  here  is  well  started.  It  was  Schabelitz  himself 
who  discovered  my  brother,  and  predicted  his  brilliant 
career.  Here" — she  had  been  glancing  over  the  artist's 
shoulder — "will  you  let  me  make  a  sketch  for  you — just 
for  the  fun  of  the  thing.''  I  do  that  kind  of  thing 
rather  decently.  Did  you  see  my  picture  called  'The 
Marcher,'  in  the  Star,  at  the  time  of  the  suffrage  pa- 
rade in  May.''  Yes,  that  was  mine.  Just  because  he  has 
what  we  call  a  butcher  haircut,  don't  think  he's  German, 
because  he  isn't.  You  wouldn't  call  Winnebago,  Wis- 
consin, Germany,  would  you?"  ' 

She  was  sketching  him  swiftly,  daringly,  masterfully. 
She  was  bringing  out  the  distinction,  the  suffering,  the 
boyishness  in  his  face,  and  toning  down  the  queer  little 
foreign  air  he  had.  Toning  it,  but  not  omitting  it 
altogether.  She  was  too  good  a  showman  for  that.  As 
she  sketched  she  talked,  and  as  she  talked  she  drew 
Theodore  into  the  conversation,  deftly,  and  just  when 
he  was  needed.  She  gave  them  what  they  had  come 
for — a  story.  And  a  good  one.  She  brought  in  Mizzi 
and  Otti,  for  color,  and  she  saw  to  it  that  they  spelled 
those  names  as  they  should  be  spelled.  She  managed 
to  gloss  over  the  question  of  Olga.  111.  Detained. 
Last  minute.  Too  brave  to  sacrifice  her  husband's 
American  tour.  She  finished  her  sketch  and  gave  it  to 
the  woman  reporter.     It  was  an  amazingly  compelling 


FANNY   HERSELF  269 

little  piece  of  work — and  yet,  not  so  amazing,  perhaps, 
when  you  consider  the  thing  that  Fanny  Brandeis  had 
put  into  it.  Then  she  sent  them  away,  tactfully.  They 
left,  knowing  all  that  Fanny  Brandeis  had  wanted  them 
to  know;  guessing  little  that  she  had  not  wanted  them 
to  guess.  More  than  that  no  human  being  can  accom- 
plish, without  the  advice  of  his  lawyer. 

"Whew !"  from  Fanny,  when  the  door  had  closed. 

«Gott  im  Himmel!"  from  Theodore.  "I  had  for- 
gotten that  America  was  like  that." 

"But  America  is  like  that.  And  Teddy,  we're  going 
to  make  it  sit  up  and  take  notice." 

At  that  Theodore  drooped  again.  Fanny  thought 
that  he  looked  startlingly  as  she  remembered  her  father 
had  looked  in  those  days  of  her  childhood,  when  Bran- 
deis' Bazaar  was  slithering  downhill.  The  sight  of  him 
moved  her  to  a  sudden  resolve.  She  crossed  swiftly  to 
him,  and  put  one  heartening  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Come  on,  brother.  Out  with  it.  Let's  have  it  all 
now." 

He  reached  up  for  her  hand  and  held  it,  desperately. 
"Oh,  Fan!"  began  Theodore,  "Fan,  I've  been  through 
heU." 

Fanny  said  nothing.  She  only  waited,  quietly,  en- 
couragingly. She  had  learned  when  not  to  talk.  Pres- 
ently he  took  up  his  story,  plunging  directly  into  it, 
as  though  sensing  that  she  had  already  divined  muck. 

"She  married  me  for  a  living.  You'll  think  that's  a 
joke,  knowing  what  I  was  earning  there,  in  Vienna, 
and  how  you  and  mother  were  denying  yourselves  every- 
thing to  keep  me.  But  in  a  city  that  circulates  a  coin 
valued  at  a  twentieth  of  a  cent,  an  American  dollar 
looms  up  big.  Besides,  two  of  the  other  girls  had  got 
married.  Good  for  nothing  officers.  She  was  jealous, 
I  suppose.  I  didn't  know  any  of  that.  I  was  flattered 
to  think  she'd  notice  me.  She  was  awfully  popular. 
She  has  a  kind  of  wit.     I  suppose  you'd  call  it  that. 


270  FANNY   HERSELF 

The  other  girls  were  just  coarse,  and  heavy,  and — 
well — animal.  You  can't  know  the  rottenness  of  life 
there  in  Vienna.  Olga  could  keep  a  whole  supper  table 
laughing  all  evening.  I  can  see,  now,  that  that  isn't 
difficult  when  your  audience  is  made  up  of  music  hall 
girls,  and  stupid,  bullet-headed  officers,  with  their 
damned  high  collars,  and  their  gold  braid,  and  their 
silly  swords,  and  their  corsets,  and  their  glittering  shoes 
and  their  miserable  petty  poverty  beneath  all  the  show. 
I  thought  I  was  a  lucky  boy.  I'd  have  pitied  everybody 
in  Winnebago,  if  I'd  ever  thought  of  anybody  in  Win- 
nebago. I  never  did,  except  once  in  a  while  of  you  and 
mother  when  I  needed  money.  I  kept  on  with  my 
music.  I  had  sense  enough  left,  for  that.  Besides,  it 
was  a  habit,  by  that  time.     Well,  we  were  married." 

He  laughed,  an  ugly,  abrupt  little  laugh  that  ended 
in  a  moan,  and  turned  his  head  and  buried  his  face  in 
Fanny's  breast.  And  Fanny's  arm  was  there,  about  his 
shoulder.  "Fanny,  you  don't — I  can't — "  He  stopped. 
Another  silence.  Fanny's  arm  tightened  its  hold.  She 
bent  and  kissed  the  top  of  the  stubbly  head,  bowed  so 
low  now.  "Fan,  do  you  remember  that  woman  in  'The 
Three  Musketeers'.''  The  hellish  woman,  that  all  men 
loved  and  loathed.'^  Well,  Olga's  like  that.  I'm  not 
whining.  I'm  not  exaggerating.  I'm  just  trying  to 
make  you  understand.  And  yet  I  don't  want  you  to 
understand.  Only  you  don't  know  what  it  means  to 
have  you  to  talk  to.  To  have  some  one  who" — ^he 
clutched  her  hand,  fearfully — "You  do  love  me,  don't 
you,  Fanny .'^    You  do,  don't  you.  Sis?" 

"More  than  any  one  in  the  world,"  Fanny  reassured 
him,  quietly.  "The  way  mother  would  have,  if  she  had 
lived." 

A  sigh  escaped  him,  at  that,  as  though  a  load  had 
lifted  from  him.  He  went  on,  presently.  "It  would 
have  been  all  right  if  I  could  have  earned  just  a  little 
more  money."    Fanny  shrank  at  that,  and  shut  her  eyes 


FANNY   HERSELF  271 

for  a  sick  moment.  "But  I  couldn't.  I  asked  her  to  be 
patient.  But  you  don't  know  the  life  there.  There  is 
no  real  home  life.  They  live  in  the  cafes.  They  go 
there  to  keep  warm,  in  the  winter,  and  to  meet  their 
friends,  and  gossip,  and  drink  that  eternal  coffee,  and 
every  coffee  house — there  are  thousands — is  a  rendez- 
vous. We  had  two  rooms,  comfortable  ones,  for  Vienna, 
and  I  tried  to  explain  to  her  that  if  I  could  work  hard, 
and  get  into  concert,  and  keep  at  the  composing,  we'd 
be  rich  some  day,  and  famous,  and  happy,  and  she'd 
have  clothes,  and  jewels.  But  she  was  too  stupid,  or 
too  bored.  Olga  is  the  kind  of  woman  who  only  believes 
what  she  sees.  Things  got  worse  all  the  time.  She  had 
a  temper.  So  have  I — or  I  used  to  have.  But  when^ 
hers  was  aroused  it  was— horrible.  Words  that — that  |^ 
— unspeakable  words.     And  one  day  she  taunted  nie\  /  '^^ 

with  being  a  with  my  race.     The  first  time  she  \^ 

called  me  that  I  felt  that  I  must  kill  her.    That  was  my     '"j 
mistake.     I  should  have  killed  her.     And  I  didn't." 

"Teddy  boy!    Don't,  brother !    You're  tired.    You're 
excited  and  worn  out." 

"No,  I'm  not.     Just  let  me  talk.     I  know  what  I'm 
saying.     There's  something  clean  about  killing."     He 
brooded  a  moment  over  that  thought.     Then  he  went 
on,  doggedly,  not  raising  his  voice.     His  hands  were 
clasped  loosely.     "You  don't  know  about  the  intoler- 
ance and  the  anti-Semitism  in  Prussia,  I  suppose.     All 
through  Germany,  for  that  matter.     In  Bavaria  it's  j 
bitter.    That's  one  reason  why  Olga  loathed  Munich  so.  1 
The  queer  part  of  it  is  that  all  that  opposition  seemed  ] 
to  fan  something  in  me ;  something  that  had  been  smol-   ' 
dering  for  a  long  time."     His  voice  had  lost  its  dull 
tone  now.     It  had  in  it  a  new  timbre.    And  as  he  talked 
he  began  to  interlard  his  English  with  bits  of  German, 
the  language  to  which  his  tongue  had  accustomed  itself 
in  the  past  ten  years.     His  sentences,  too,  took  on  a 
German   construction,   from   time   to    time.      He  was 


272  FANNY   HERSELF 

plainly  excited  now.  "My  playing  began  to  improve. 
There  would  be  a  ghastly  scene  with  Olga — sickening — 
degrading.  Then  I  would  go  to  my  work,  and  I  would 
play,  but  magnificently !  I  tell  you,  it  would  be  playing. 
I  know.  To  fool  myself  I  know  better.  One  morning, 
after  a  dreadful  quarrel  I  got  the  idea  for  the  con- 
certo, and  the  psalms.  Jewish  music.  As  Jewish  as 
the  Kol  Nidre.  I  wanted  to  express  the  passion,  and 
fire,  and  history  of  a  people.  My  people.  Why  was 
that.f^  Tell  me.  Selhst,  weiss  ich  nicht.  I  felt  that  if  I 
could  put  into  it  just  a  millionth  part  of  their  humilia- 
tion, and  their  glory ;  their  tragedy  and  their  triumph ; 
their  sorrow,  and  their  grandeur;  their  persecution, 
their  weldtschmerz.  Volksclimerz.  That  was  it.  And 
through  it  all,  weaving  in  and  out,  one  great  under- 
lying motif.  Indestructibility.  The  great  cry  which 
says,  'We  cannot  be  destroyed !'  " 

He  stood  up,  uncertainly.  His  eyes  were  blazing. 
He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  luxurious  little 
room.  Fanny's  eyes  matched  his.  She  was  staring  at 
him,  fascinated,  trembling. 

She  moistened  her  lips  a  little  with  her  tongue. 
"And  you've  done  it  ?    Teddy !    You've  done — that !" 

Theodore  Brandeis  stood  up,  very  straight  and  tall. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  simply.     "Yes,  I've  done  that." 

She  came  over  to  him  then,  and  put  her  two  hands 
on  his  shoulders.  "Ted — dear — will  you  ever  forgive 
me.'^  I'll  try  to  make  up  for  it  now.  I  didn't  know. 
I've  been  blind.  Worse  than  blind.  Criminal."  She 
was  weeping  now,  broken-heartedly,  and  he  was  patting 
her  with  little  comforting  love  pats,  and  whispering 
words  of  tenderness. 

"Forgive  you  ?    Forgive  you  what .''" 

"The  years  of  suffering.  The  years  you've  had  to 
spend  with  her.     With  that  horrible  woman — " 

"Don't — "  He  sucked  his  breath  between  his  teeth. 
His  face  had  gone  haggard  again.     Fanny,  direct  as 


FANNY   HERSELF  273 

always,  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would  have  it  all. 
And  now. 

"There's  something  you  haven't  told  me.  Tell  me  all 
of  it.  You're  my  brother  and  I'm  your  sister.  We're 
all  we  have  in  the  world."  And  at  that,  as  though 
timed  by  some  miraculous  and  supernatural  stage  man- 
ager, there  came  a  cry  from  the  next  room;  a  sleepy, 
comfortable,  imperious  little  cry.  Mizzi  had  awakened. 
^Fanny  made  a  step  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  Then 
she  turned  back.  "Tell  me  why  Olga  didn't  come. 
Why  isn't  she  here  with  her  husband  and  baby?" 

"Because  she's  with  another  man." 

"Another—" 

"It  had  been  going  on  for  a  long  time.  I  was  the 
last  to  know  about  it.  It's  that  way,  always,  isn't  it.f* 
He's  an  officer.  A  fool.  He'll  have  to  take  off  his  silly 
corsets  now,  and  his  velvet  collar,  and  his  shiny  boots, 
and  go  to  war.  Damn  him!  I  hope  they'll  kill  him 
with  a  hundred  bayonets,  one  by  one,  and  leave  him 
to  rot  on  the  field.  She  had  been  fooling  me  aU  the 
time,  and  they  had  been  laughing  at  me,  the  two  of 
them.  I  didn't  find  it  out  until  just  before  this  Ameri- 
can trip.  And  when  I  confronted  her  with  it  she 
laughed  in  my  face.  She  said  she  hated  me.  She  said 
she'd  rather  starve  than  leave  him  to  come  to  America 
with  me.  She  said  I  was  a  fiddling  fool.  She — "  he 
was  trembling  and  sick  with  the  shame  of  it — "God! 
I  can't  tell  you  the  things  she  said.  She  wanted  to  keep 
Mizzi.  Isn't  that  strange?  She  loves  the  baby.  She 
neglects  her,  and  spoils  her,  and  once  I  saw  her  beat 
her,  in  a  rage.  But  she  says  she  loves  my  Mizzi,  and  I 
believe  she  does,  in  her  own  dreadful  way.  I  promised 
her,  and  lied  to  her,  and  then  I  ran  away  with  Mizzi 
and  her  nurse." 

"Oh,  I  thank  God  for  that !"  Fanny  cried.  **I  thank 
God  for  that!  And  now,  Teddy  boy,  we'll  forget  all 
about  those  miserable  years.     We'll  forget  aU  about 


274  FANNY   HERSELF 

her,  and  the  life  she  led  you.  You're  going  to  have 
your  chance  here.  You're  going  to  be  repaid  for  every 
minute  of  suffering  you've  endured.  I'll  make  it  up  ta 
you.  And  when  you  see  them  applauding  you,  calling 
for  you,  adoring  you,  all  those  hideous  years  will  fade 
from  your  mind,  and  you'll  be  Theodore  Brandeis,  the 
successful,  Theodore  Brandeis,  the  gifted,  Theodore 
Brandeis,  the  great!  You  need  never  think  of  her 
again.  You'll  never  see  her  again.  That  beast !  That 
woman !" 

And  at  that  Theodore's  face  became  distorted  and 
dreadful  with  pain.  He  raised  two  impotent,  shaking 
arms  high  above  his  head.  "That's  just  it!  That's 
just  it !  You  don't  know  what  love  is.  You  don't  know 
what  hate  is.  You  don't  know  how  I  hate  myself. 
Loathe  myself.  She's  all  that's  miserable,  all  that's 
unspeakable,  all  that's  vile.  And  if  she  called  me  to-day 
I'd  come.  That's  it."  He  covered  his  shamed  face 
with  his  two  hands,  so  that  the  words  came  from  him 
slobberingly,  sickeningly.  "I  hate  her!  I  hate  her  J 
And  I  want  her.    I  want  her.    I  want  her  I'* 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

IF  Fanny  Brandeis,  the  deliberately  selfish,  the  calcu- 
latingly ambitious,  was  aghast  at  the  trick  fate  had 
played  her,  she  kept  her  thoughts  to  herself.  Knowing 
her,  I  think  she  must  have  been  grimly  amused  at  find- 
ing herself  saddled  with  a  helpless  baby,  a  bewildered 
peasant  woman,  and  an  artist  brother  both  helpless 
and  bewildered. 

It  was  out  of  the  question  to  house  them  in  her  small 
apartment.  She  found  a  furnished  apartment  near  her 
own,  and  installed  them  there,  with  a  working  house- 
keeper in  charge.  She  had  a  gift  for  management,  and 
she  arranged  all  these  details  with  a  brisk  capability 
that  swept  everything  before  it.  A  sunny  bedroom 
for  Mizzi.  But  then,  a  bright  living  room,  too,  for 
Theodore's  hours  of  practice.  No  noise.  Chicago's 
roar  maddened  him.  Otti  shied  at  every  new  contriv- 
ance that  met  her  eye.  She  had  to  be  broken  in  to 
elevators,  electric  switches,  hot  and  cold  faucets, 
radiators. 

"No  apartment  ever  built  could  cover  all  the  re- 
quirements," Fanny  confided  to  Fenger,  after  the  first 
harrowing  week.  *'What  they  really  need  is  a  com- 
bination palace,  houseboat,  sanatorium,  and  creche.'* 

"Look  here,"  said  Fenger.  "If  I  can  help,  why — " 
a  sudden  thought  struck  him.  "Why  don't  you  bring 
'em  all  down  to  my  place  in  the  country?  We're  not 
there  half  the  time.  It's  too  cool  for  my  wife  in  Sep- 
tember. Just  the  thing  for  the  child,  and  your  brother 
could  fiddle  his  head  off." 

The  Fengers  had   a  roomy,   wide-verandaed  house 

276 


276  FANNY   HERSELF 

near  Lake  Forest;  one  of  the  many  places  of  its  kind 
that  dot  the  section  known  as  the  north  shore.  Its  lawn 
sloped  gently  down  to  the  water's  edge.  The  house  was 
gay  with  striped  awnings,  and  scarlet  geraniums,  and 
chintz-covered  chairs.  The  bright,  sparkling,  luxuri- 
ous little  place  seemed  to  satisfy  a  certain  beauty-sense 
in  Fenger,  as  did  the  etchings  on  the  walls  in  his  office. 
Fanny  had  spent  a  week-end  there  in  July,  with  three 
or  four  other  guests,  including  Fascinating  Facts.  She 
had  been  charmed  with  it,  and  had  announced  that  her 
energies  thereafter  would  be  directed  solely  toward  the 
possession  of  just  such  a  house  as  this,  with  a  lawn 
that  was  lipped  by  the  lake,  awnings  and  geraniums 
to  give  it  a  French  cafe  air;  books  and  magazines 
enough  to  belie  that. 

"And  I'll  always  wear  white,"  she  promised,  gayly, 
"and  there'll  be  pitchers  on  every  table,  frosty  on  the 
outside,  and  minty  on  the  inside,  and  you're  all  invited." 

They  had  laughed  at  that,  and  so  had  she,  but  she 
had  been  grimly  in  earnest  just  the  same. 

She  shook  her  head  now  at  Fenger's  suggestion. 
''Imagine  Mrs.  Fenger's  face  at  sight  of  Mizzi,  and 
Theodore  with  his  violin,  and  Otti  with  her  shawls  and 
paraphernalia.  Though,"  she  added,  seriously,  "it's 
mighty  kind  of  you,  and  generous — and  just  like  a 
man." 

"It  isn't  kindness  nor  generosity  that  makes  me  want 
to  do  things  for  you." 

"Modest,"  murmured  Fanny,  wickedly,  "as  always." 

Fenger  bent  his  look  upon  her.  "Don't  try  the 
ingenue  on  me,  Fanny." 

Theodore's  manager,  Kurt  Stein,  was  to  have  fol- 
lowed him  in  ten  days.  The  war  changed  that.  The 
war  was  to  change  many  things.  Fanny  seemed  to 
sense  the  influx  of  musicians  that  was  to  burst  upon  the 
United  States  following  the  first  few  weeks  of  the  catas- 
trophe, and  she  set  about  forestalling  it.    Advertising. 


FANNY   HERSELF  277 

That  was  what  Theodore  needed.  She  had  faith  enough 
in  his  genius.  But  her  business  sense  told  her  that  this 
genius  must  be  enhanced  by  the  proper  setting.  She 
set  about  creating  this  setting.  She  overlooked  no 
chance  to  fix  his  personality  in  the  kaleidoscopic  mind 
of  the  American  public — or  as  much  of  it  as  she  could 
reach.  His  publicity  man  was  a  dignified  German- 
American  whose  methods  were  legitimate  and  unin- 
spired. Fanny's  enthusiasm  and  superb  confidence  in 
Theodore's  genius  infected  Fenger,  Fascinating  Faces, 
even  Nathan  Haynes  himself.  Nathan  Haynes  had 
never  posed  as  a  patron  of  the  arts,  in  spite  of  his  fan- 
tastic millions.  But  by  the  middle  of  September  there 
were  few  of  his  friends,  or  his  wife's  friends,  who  had 
not  heard  of  this  Theodore  Brandeis.  In  Chicago,  Illi- 
nois, no  one  lives  in  houses,  it  is  said,  except  the  city's 
old  families,  and  new  millionaires.  The  rest  of  the  vast 
population  is  flat-dwelling.  To  say  that  Nathan 
Haynes'  spoken  praise  reached  the  city's  house-dwellers 
would  carry  with  it  a  significance  plain  to  any 
Chicagoan. 

As  for  Fanny's  method;  here  is  a  typical  example 
of  her  somewhat  crude  effectiveness  in  showmanship. 
Otti  had  brought  with  her  from  Vienna  her  native  peas- 
ant costume.  It  is  a  costume  seen  daily  in  the  Austrian 
capital,  on  the  Ring,  in  the  Stadt  Park,  wherever 
Viennese  nurses  convene  with  their  small  charges.  To 
the  American  eye  it  is  a  musical  comedy  costume,  pic- 
turesque, bouffant,  amazing.  Your  Austrian  takes  it 
quite  for  granted.  Regardless  of  the  age  of  the  nurse, 
the  skirt  is  short,  coming  a  few  inches  below  the  knees, 
and  built  like  a  lamp  shade,  in  color  usually  a  bright 
scarlet,  with  rows  of  black  velvet  ribbon  at  the  bottom. 
Beneath  it  are  worn  skirts  and  skirts,  and  skirts,  so 
that  the  opera-boufFe  effect  is  complete.  The  bodice 
is  black  velvet,  laced  over  a  chemise  of  white.  The 
head-gear  a  soaring  winged  affair  of  stiffly  starched 


278  FANNY   HERSELF 

white,  that  is  a  pass  between  the  Breton  peasant  wom- 
an's cap  and  an  aeroplane.  Black  stockings  and  slip- 
pers finish  the  costume. 

Otti  and  Mizzi  spent  the  glorious  September  days  in 
Lincoln  park,  Otti  garbed  in  staid  American  stripes  and 
apron,  Mizzi  resplendent  in  smartest  of  children's 
dresses  provided  for  her  lavishly  by  her  aunt.  Her  fat 
and  dimpled  hands  smoothed  the  blue,  or  pink  or  white 
folds  with  a  complacency  astonishing  in  one  of  her 
years.     "That's  her  mother  in  her,"  Fanny  thought. 

One  rainy  autumn  day  Fanny  entered  her  brother's 
apartment  to  find  Otti  resplendent  in  her  Viennese 
nurse's  costume.  Mizzi  had  been  cross  and  fretful,  and 
the  sight  of  the  familiar  scarlet  and  black  and  white, 
and  the  great  winged  cap  seemed  to  soothe  her. 

"Otti !"  Fanny  exclaimed.  "You  gorgeous  creature ! 
What  is  it?  A  dress  rehearsal.'^"  Otti  got  the  import, 
if  not  the  English. 

"So  gehen  wir  im  Wien,"  she  explained,  and  struck  a 
killing  pose. 

"Everybody?    All  the  nurses?    Alle?" 

"Aber  sure,"  Otti  displayed  her  half  dozen  English 
words  whenever  possible. 

Fanny  stared  a  moment.  Her  eyes  narrowed  thought- 
fully. "To-morrow's  Saturday,"  she  said,  in  German. 
*'If  it's  fair  and  warm  you  put  on  that  costume  and 
take  Mizzi  to  the  park.  .  .  .  Certainly  the  animal 
cages,  if  you  want  to.  If  any  one  annoys  you,  come 
home.  If  a  policeman  asks  you  why  you  are  dressed 
that  way  tell  him  it  is  the  costume  worn  by  nurses  in 
Vienna.  Give  him  your  name.  Tell  him  who  your  mas- 
ter is.  If  he  doesn't  speak  German — and  he  won't,  in 
Chicago — some  one  will  translate  for  you." 

Not  a  Sunday  paper  in  Chicago  that  did  not  carry 
a  startling  picture  of  the  resplendent  Otti  and  the 
dimpled  and  smiling  Mizzi.  The  omnipresent  staff; 
photographer  seemed  to  sniff  his  victim  from  afar.    He 


FANNY   HERSELF  279 

pounced  on  Theodore  Brandeis'  baby  daughter,  ac- 
companied by  her  Viennese  nurse  (in  costume)  and  he 
played  her  up  in  a  Sunday  special  that  was  worth 
thousands  of  dollars,  Fanny  assured  the  bewildered  and 
resentful  Theodore,  as  he  floundered  wildly  through  the 
billowing  waves  of  the  Sunday  newspaper  flood. 

Theodore's  first  appearance  was  to  be  in  Chicago  as 
soloist  with  the  Chicago  Symphony  Orchestra,  in  the 
season's  opening  program  in  October.  Any  music- 
wise  Chicagoan  will  tell  you  that  the  Chicago  Sym- 
phony Orchestra  is  not  only  a  musical  organization 
functioning  marvelously  (when  playing  Beethoven).  It 
is  an  institution.  Its  patrons  will  admit  the  existence, 
but  not  the  superiority  of  similar  organizations  in 
Boston,  Philadelphia  and  New  York.  On  Friday  after- 
noons, during  the  season.  Orchestra  Hall,  situate  on 
Michigan  Boulevard,  holds  more  pretty  girls  and 
fewer  men  than  one  might  expect  to  see  at  any  one 
gathering  other  than,  perhaps,  a  wholesale  debutante 
tea  crush.  A  Friday  afternoon  ticket  is  as  impossible 
of  attainment  for  one  not  a  subscriber  as  a  seat  in 
heaven  for  a  sinner.  Saturday  night's  audience  is 
staider,  more  masculine,  less  staccato.  Gallery,  bal- 
cony, parquet,  it  represents  the  city's  best.  Its  men 
prefer  Beethoven  to  Berlin.  Its  women  could  wear 
pearl  necklaces,  and  don't.  Between  the  audience  and 
the  solemn  black-and-white  rows  on  the  platform  there 
exists  an  entente  cordiale.  The  Konzert-Meister  bows 
to  his  friend  in  the  third  row,  as  he  tucks  his  violin' 
under  his  chin.  The  fifth  row,  aisle,  smiles  and  nods 
to  the  sausage-fingered  'cellist. 

"Fritz  is  playing  well  to-night." 

In  a  rarefied  form,  it  is  the  atmosphere  that  existed  *- 
between  audience  and  players  in  the  days  of  the  old 
and  famous  Daly  stock  company. 

Such  was  the  character  of  the  audience  Theodore  was 
to  face  on  his  first  appearance  in  America.     Fanny 


280  FANNY   HERSELF 

explained  its  nature  to  him.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  a  gesture  as  German  as  it  was  expressive. 

Theodore  seemed  to  have  become  irrevocably  German 
during  the  years  of  his  absence  from  America.  He  had 
a  queer  stock  of  little  foreign  tricks.  He  lifted  his  hat 
to  men  acquaintances  on  the  street.  He  had  learned 
to  smack  his  heels  smartly  together  and  to  bow  stifHy 
^  from  the  waist,  and  to  kiss  the  hand  of  the  matrons — 
and  they  adored  him  for  it.  He  was  quite  innocent  of 
pose  in  these  things.  He  seemed  to  have  imbibed  them, 
together  with  his  queer  German  haircut,  and  his  incred- 
ibly German  clothes. 

Fanny  allowed  him  to  retain  the  bow,  and  the  courtly 
hand-kiss,  but  she  insisted  that  he  change  the  clothes 
and  the  haircut. 

"You'll  have  to  let  it  grow,  Ted.  I  don't  mean  that 
I  want  you  to  have  a  mane,  like  Ysaye.  But  I  do 
think  you  ought  to  discard  that  convict  cut.  Besides, 
it  isn't  becoming.  And  if  you're  going  to  be  an  Ameri- 
can violinist  you'll  have  to  look  it — with  a  foreign 
finish." 

He  let  his  hair  grow.  Fanny  watched  with  interest 
for  the  appearance  of  the  unruly  lock  which  had  been 
wont  to  straggle  over  his  white  forehead  in  his  school- 
boy days.  The  new  and  weU-cut  American  clothes 
effected  surprisingly  little  change.  Fanny,  surveying 
him,  shook  her  head.  ^ 

"When  you  stepped  off  the  ship  you  looked  like  a 
German  in  German  clothes.  Now  you  look  like  a  Ger- 
man in  American  clothes.  I  don't  know — I  do  believe 
it's  your  face,  Ted.  I  wouldn't  have  thought  that  ten 
years  or  so  in  any  country  could  change  the  shape  of 
one's  nose,  and  mouth  and  cheekbones.  Do  you  suppose 
it's  the  umlauts?" 

"Cut  it  out!"  laughed  Ted,  that  being  his  idea  of 
modern  American  slang.  He  was  fascinated  by  these 
crisp  phrases,  but  he  was  ten  years  or  so  behind  the 


FANNY   HERSELF  281 

times,  and  he  sometimes  startled  his  hearers  by  an  ex- 
hibition of  slang  so  old  as  to  be  almost  new.  It  was 
all  the  more  startling  in  contrast  with  his  conversa- 
)  tional  English,  which  was  as  carefully  correct  as  a  bom 
German's. 

As  for  the  rest,  it  was  plain  that  he  was  interested, 
but  unhappy.  He  practiced  for  hours  daily.  He  often 
took  Mizzi  to  the  park  and  came  back  storming  about 
the  dirt,  the  noise,  the  haste,  the  rudeness,  the  crowds, 
the  mismanagement  of  the  entire  city.  Dummheit,  he 
called  it.  They  profaned  the  lake.  They  allowed  the 
people  to  trample  the  grass.  They  threw  papers  and 
banana  skins  about.  And  they  wasted!  His  years  in 
Germany  had  taught  him  to  regard  all  these  things  as 
sacrilege,  and  the  last  as  downright  criminal.  He  was 
lonesome  for  his  Germany.  That  was  plain.  He  hated 
it,  and  loved  it,  much  as  he  hated  and  loved  the  woman 
who  had  so  nearly  spoiled  his  life.  The  maelstrom 
known  as  the  southwest  comer  of  State  and  Madison 
streets  appalled  him. 

"Gott!"  he  exclaimed.  "Es  ist  unglaublich!  Aber 
ganz  unglaublich!  Ich  werde  bald  veriickt."  He 
somehow  lapsed  into  German  when  excited. 

Fanny  took  him  to  the  Haynes-Cooper  plant  one 
day,  and  it  left  him  dazed,  and  incredulous.  She  quoted 
millions  at  him.  He  was  not  interested.  He  looked  at 
the  office  workers,  the  mail-room  girls,  and  shook  his 
head,  dumbly.  They  were  using  bicycles  now,  with  a 
bundle  rack  in  the  front,  in  the  vast  stock  rooms,  and 
the  roller  skates  had  been  discarded  as  too  slow.  The 
stock  boys  skimmed  around  corners  on  these  light- 
weight bicycles,  up  one  aisle,  and  down  the  next,  snatch- 
ing bundles  out  of  bins,  shooting  bundles  into  bins,  as 
expertly  as  players  in  a  gymkhana. 

Theodore  saw  the  uncanny  rapidity  with  which  the 
letter-opening  machines  did  their  work.  He  watched  the 
great  presses  that  turned  out  the  catalogue — the  cata- 


282  FANNY   HERSELF 

logue  whose  message  meant  millions ;  he  sat  in  Fenger's 
office  and  stared  at  the  etchings,  and  said,  "Certainly," 
with  politeness,  when  Fenger  excused  himself  in  the 
midst  of  a  conversation  to  pick  up  the  telephone  re- 
ceiver and  talk  to  their  shoe  factory  in  Maine.  He 
ended  up  finally  in  Fanny's  office,  no  longer  a  dingy  and 
undesirable  corner,  but  a  quietly  brisk  center  that  sent 
out  vibrations  over  the  entire  plant.  Slosson,  incident- 
ally, was  no  longer  of  the  infants'  wear.  He  had  been 
transferred  to  a  subordinate  position  in  the  grocery 
section. 

"Well,"  said  Fanny,  seating  herself  at  her  desk,  and 
smiling  radiantly  upon  her  brother,  "Well,  what  do 
you  think  of  us?" 

And  then  Theodore  Brandeis,  the  careless,  the  selfish, 
the  blind,  said  a  most  amazing  thing. 

"Fanny,  I'll  work.  I'll  soon  get  some  of  these  mil- 
lions that  are  lying  about  everywhere  in  this  country. 
And  then  I'll  take  you  out  of  this.    I  promise  you." 

Fanny  stared  at  him,  a  picture  of  ludicrous  aston- 
ishment. 

*'Why,  you  talk  as  if  you  were — sorry  for  me!" 

"I  am,  dear.  God  knows  I  am.  I'll  make  it  up^  to 
you,  somehow." 

It  was  the  first  time  in  all  her  dashing  and  success- 
ful career  that  Fanny  Brandeis  had  felt  the  sting  of 
pity.  She  resented  it,  hotly.  And  from  Theodore,  the 
groper,  the —  "But  at  any  rate,"  something  within  her 
said,  "he  has  always  been  true  to  himself." 

Theodore's  manager  arrived  in  September,  on  a  Hol- 
land boat,  on  which  he  had  been  obliged  to  share  a 
stuffy  inside  cabin  with  three  others.  Kurt  Stein  was 
German  born,  but  American  bred,  and  he  had  the  Ameri- 
can love  of  luxurious  travel.  He  was  still  testy  when 
he  reached  Chicago  and  his  charge. 

"How  goes  the  work?"  he  demanded  at  once,  of 
Theodore.    He  eyed  him  sharply.    "That's  better.    You 


FANNY   HERSELF  283 

have  lost  some  of  the  look  you  had  when  you  left  Wien. 
The  ladles  would  have  liked  that  look,  here  in  America. 
But  it  is  bad  for  the  work." 

He  took  Fanny  aside  before  he  left.  His  face  was 
serious.  It  was  plain  that  he  was  disturbed.  "That 
woman,"  he  began.  "Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Brandeis.  She 
came  to  me.  She  says  she  is  starving.  She  is  alone 
there,  in  Vienna.  Her — well,  she  is  alone.  The  war  is 
everywhere.  They  say  it  will  last  for  years.  She  wept 
and  pleaded  with  me  to  take  her  here." 

"No!"  cried  Fanny.  "Don't  let  him  hear  it.  He 
mustn't  know.    He " 

"Yes,  I  know.  She  is  a  paradox,  that  woman.  I  tell 
you,  she  almost  prevailed  on  me.  There  is  something 
about  her;  something  that  repels  and  compels."  That 
struck  him  as  being  a  very  fine  phrase  indeed,  and  he 
repeated  it  appreciatively. 

"I'll  send  her  money,  somehow,"  said  Fanny. 

*'Yes.  But  they  say  that  money  is  not  reaching  them 
over  there.  I  don't  know  what  becomes  of  it.  It  van- 
ishes." He  turned  to  leave.  "Oh,  a  message  for  you. 
On  my  boat  was  Schabelitz.  It  looks  very  much  as  if 
his  great  fortune,  the  accumulation  of  years,  would  be 
swept  away  by  this  war.  Already  they  are  tramping 
up  and  down  his  lands  in  Poland.  His  money — much  of 
it — is  invested  in  great  hotels  in  Poland  and  Russia, 
and  they  are  using  them  for  barracks  and  hospitals." 

"Schabelitz!  You  mean  a  message  for  Theodore.? 
From  him  ?    That's  wonderful." 

"For  Theodore,  and  for  you,  too." 

"For  me !  I  made  a  picture  of  him  once  when  I  was 
a  little  girl.  I  didn't  see  him  again  for  years.  Then 
I  heard  him  play.  It  was  on  his  last  tour  here.  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  him.  But  I  was  afraid.  And  my 
face  was  red  with  weeping." 

"He  remembers  you.  And  he  means  to  see  Theodore 
and  you.    He  can  do  much  for  Theodore  in  this  country, 


284  FANNY   HERSELF 

and  I  think  he  will.  His  message  for  you  was  this :  'Tell 
her  I  still  have  the  picture  that  she  made  of  me,  with 
the  jack-in-the-box  in  mj  hand,  and  that  look  on  my 
face.  Tell  her  I  have  often  wondered  about  that  little 
girl  in  the  red  cap  and  the  black  curls.  I've  wondered 
if  she  went  on,  catching  that  look  back  of  people's 
faces.  If  she  did,  she  should  be  more  famous  than  her 
brother.'" 

"He  said  that !    About  me !" 

"I  am  telling  you  as  nearly  as  I  can.  He  said,  *Tell 
her  it  was  a  woman  who  ruined  Bauer's  career,  and 
caused  him  to  end  his  days  a  music  teacher  in — in — 
Gott!     I  can't  remember  the  name  of  that  town " 

"Winnebago." 

"Winnebago.  That  was  it.  *Tell  her  not  to  let  the 
brother  spoil  his  life  that  way.'  So.  That  is  the  mes- 
sage.   He  said  you  would  understand." 

Theodore's  face  was  ominous  when  she  returned  to 
him,  after  Stein  had  left. 

"I  wish  you  and  Stein  wouldn't  stand  out  there  in 
the  hall  whispering  about  me  as  if  I  were  an  idiot  pa- 
tient.    What  were  you  saying.'^" 

"Nothing,  Ted.     Really." 

He  brooded  a  moment.  Then  his  face  lighted  up 
with  a  flash  of  intuition.  He  flung  an  accusing  finger 
at  Fanny. 

"He  has  seen  her." 

"Ted!    You  promised." 

"She's  in  trouble.  This  war.  And  she  hasn't  any 
money.  I  know.  Look  here.  We've  got  to  send  her 
money.     Cable  it." 

"I  will.    Just  leave  it  all  to  me." 

"If  she's  here,  in  this  country,  and  you're  lying  to 
me " 

"She  isn't.    My  word  of  honor,  Ted." 

He  relaxed. 

Life  was  a  very  complicated  thing  for  Fanny  these 


FANNY   HERSELF  285 

days.  Ted  was  leaning  on  her;  Mizzi,  Otti,  and  now 
Fenger.  Nathan  Haynes  was  poking  a  disturbing  fin- 
ger into  that  delicate  and  complicated  mechanism  of 
System  which  Fenger  had  built  up  in  the  Haynes-Coo- 
per  plant.  And  Fenger,  snarling,  was  trying  to  guard 
his  treasure.  He  came  to  Fanny  with  his  grievance. 
Fanny  had  always  stimulated  him,  reassured  him,  given 
him  the  mental  readjustment  that  he  needed. 

He  strode  into  her  office  one  morning  in  late  Septem- 
ber. Ordinarily  he  sent  for  her.  He  stood  by  her 
desk  now,  a  sheaf  of  papers  in  his  hand,  palpably  stage 
props,  and  lifted  significant  eyebrows  in  the  direction 
of  the  stenographer  busy  at  her  typewriter  in  the  cor- 
ner. 

"You  may  leave  that.  Miss  Mahin,"  Fanny  said. 
Miss  Mahin,  a  comprehending  young  woman,  left  it, 
and  the  room  as  well.  Fenger  sat  down.  He  was  under 
great  excitement,  though  he  was  quite  controlled. 
Fanny,  knowing  him,  waited  quietly.  His  eyes  held 
hers. 

"It's  come,"  Fenger  began.  "You  know  that  for  the 
last  year  Haynes  has  been  milling  around  with  a  herd 
of  sociologists,  philanthropists,  and  students  of  eco- 
nomics. He  had  some  scheme  in  the  back  of  his  head, 
but  I  thought  it  was  just  another  of  his  impractical 
ideas.  It  appears  that  it  wasn't.  Between  the  lot  of 
them  they've  evolved  a  savings  and  profit-sharing  plan 
that's  founded  on  a  kind  of  practical  universal  brother- 
hood dream.  Haynes's  millions  are  bothering  him.  If 
they  actually  put  this  thing  through  I'll  get  out.  It'll 
mean  that  everything  I've  built  up  will  be  torn  down. 
It  will  mean  that  any  six-dollar-a-week  girl " 

"As  I  understand  it,"  interrupted  Fanny,  "it  will 
mean  that  there  will  be  no  more  six-doUar-a-week 
girls." 

"That's  it.  And  let  me  tell  you,  once  you  get  the 
ignorant,  unskilled  type  to  believing  they're  actually 


286  FANNY   HERSELF 

capable  of  earning  decent  money,  actually  worth 
something,  they're  worse  than  useless.  They're  dan- 
gerous." 

"You  don't  believe  that." 

"I  do." 

"But  it's  a  theory  that  belongs  to  the  Dark  Ages. 
We've  disproved  it.    We've  got  beyond  that." 

"Yes.  So  was  war.  We'd  got  beyond  it.  But  it's 
here.  I  tell  you,  there  are  only  two  classes:  the  gov- 
erning and  the  governed.  That  has  always  been  true. 
It  always  will  be.  Let  the  Socialists  rave.  It  has  never 
got  them  anywhere.  I  know,  I  come  from  the  mucker 
class  myself.  I  know  what  they  stand  for.  Boost 
them,  and  they'll  turn  on  you.  If  there's  anything  in 
any  of  them,  he'll  pull  himself  up  by  his  own  boot- 
straps." 

"They're  not  all  potential  Fengers." 

"Then  let  'em  stay  what  they  are." 

Fanny's  pencil  was  tracing  and  retracing  a  tortured 
and  meaningless  figure  on  the  paper  before  her.  "Tell 
me,  do  you  remember  a  girl  named  Sarah  Sapinsky?" 

"Never  heard  of  her." 

"That's  fitting.  Sarah  Sapinsky  was  a  very  pretty, 
very  dissatisfied  girl  who  was  a  slave  to  the  bimdle 
chute.  One  day  there  was  a  period  of  two  seconds 
when  a  bundle  didn't  pop  out  at  her,  and  she  had  time 
to  think.  Anyway,  she  left.  I  asked  about  her.  She's 
on  the  streets." 

"Well?" 

"Thanks  to  you  and  your  system." 

"Look  here,  Fanny.  I  didn't  come  to  you  for  that 
kind  of  talk.  Don't,  for  heaven's  sake,  give  me  any 
sociological  drivel  to-day.  I'm  not  here  just  to  tell  ^^ 
you  my  troubles.  You  know  what  my  contract  is  here 
with  Haynes-Cooper.  And  you  know  the  amount  of 
stock  I  hold.  If  this  scheme  of  Haynes's  goes  in,  I 
go   out.     Voluntarily.     But  at  my  own  price.     The 


FANNY   HERSELF  287' 

Haynes-Cooper  plant  is  at  the  height  of  its  efficiency 
now."  He  dropped  his  voice.  "But  the  mail  order 
business  is  in  its  infancy.  There's  no  limit  to  what  can 
be  done  with  it  in  the  next  few  years.  Understand? 
Do  you  get  what  I'm  trying  to  tell  you?"  He  leaned 
forward,  tense  and  terribly  in  earnest. 

Fanny  stared  at  him.  Then  her  hand  went  to  her 
head  in  a  gesture  of  weariness.  "Not  to-day.  Please. 
And  not  here.  Don't  think  I'm  ungrateful  for  your 
confidence.  But — this  month  has  been  a  terrific  strain. 
Just  let  me  pass  the  fifteenth  of  October.  Let  me  see 
Theodore  on  the  way " 

Fenger's  fingers  closed  about  her  wrist.  Fanny  got 
to  her  feet  angrily.  They  glared  at  each  other  a  mo- 
ment. Then  the  humor  of  the  picture  they  must  be 
making  struck  Fanny.  She  began  to  laugh.  Fenger's 
glare  became  a  frown.  He  turned  abruptly  and  left 
the  office.  Fanny  looked  down  at  her  wrist  ruefully. 
Four  circlets  of  red  marked  its  smooth  whiteness.  She 
laughed  again,  a  little  uncertainly  this  time. 

When  she  got  home  that  night  she  found,  in  her 
mail,  a  letter  for  Theodore,  postmarked  Vienna,  and 
stamped  with  the  mark  of  the  censor.  Theodore  had 
given  her  his  word  of  honor  that  he  would  not  write 
Olga,  or  give  her  his  address.  Olga  was  risking  Fan- 
ny's address.  She  stood  looking  at  the  letter  now. 
Theodore  was  coming  in  for  dinner,  as  he  did  five  nights 
out  of  the  week.  As  she  stood  in  the  hallway,  she 
heard  the  rattle  of  his  key  in  the  lock.  She  flew  down 
the  hall  and  into  her  bedroom,  her  letters  in  her  hand. 
She  opened  her  dressing  table  drawer  and  threw  them 
into  it,  switched  on  the  light  and  turned  to  face  Theo- 
dore in  the  doorway. 

« 'Lo,  Sis." 

"Hello,  Teddy.  Kiss  me.  Phew !  That  pipe  again. 
How'd  the  work  go  to-day  ?" 

*'So — ^80.    Any  mail  for  me?" 


288         fanny;  hersele 

;      "No." 

That  night,  when  he  had  gone,  she  took  out  the  letter 
and  stood  turning  it  over  and  over  in  her  hands.  She 
had  no  thought  of  reading  it.  It  was  its  destruction 
she  was  contemplating.  Finally  she  tucked  it  away  in 
her  handkerchief  box.  Perhaps,  after  the  fifteenth  of 
October.     Everything  depended  on  that. 

And  the  fifteenth  of  October  came.  It  had  dragged 
for  weeks,  and  then,  at  the  end,  it  galloped.  By  that 
time  Fanny  had  got  used  to  seeing  Theodore's  picture 
and  name  outside  Orchestra  Hall,  and  in  the  musical 
columns  of  the  papers.  Brandeis.  Theodore  Brandeis, 
the  violinist.  The  name  sang  in  her  ears.  When  she 
walked  on  Michigan  Avenue  during  that  last  week  she 
would  force  herself  to  march  straight  on  past  Orchestra 
Hall,  contenting  herself  with  a  furtive  and  oblique 
glance  at  the  announcement  board.  The  advance  pro- 
grams hung,  a  little  bundle  of  them,  suspended  by  a 
string  from  a  nail  on  the  wall  near  the  box  ofiice,  so 
that  ticket  purchasers  might  rip  one  off'  and  peruse 
the  week's  musical  menu.  Fanny  longed  to  hear  the 
comment  of  the  little  groups  that  were  constantly  form- 
ing and  dispersing  about  the  box  office  window.  She 
never  dreamed  of  allowing  herself  to  hover  near  it.  She 
thought  sometimes  of  the  woman  in  the  businesslike 
gray  skirt  and  the  black  sateen  apron  who  had  drudged 
so  cheerfully  in  the  little  shop  so  that  Theodore  Bran- 
deis' name  might  shine  now  from  the  very  top  of  the 
program,  in  heavy  black  letters : 

Soloist:  Mr.  THEODORE  BRANDEIS,  Violin. 

The  injustice  of  it.  Fanny  had  never  ceased  to  rage 
at  that. 

In  the  years  to  come  Theodore  Brandeis  was  to  have 
that  adulation  which  the  American  public,  tempera- 
mentally so  cold,  gives  its  favorite,  once  the  ice  of  its 
reserve  is  thawed.  He  was  to  look  down  on  that  surg- 
ing, tempestuous  crowd  which  sometimes  packs  itself 


FANNY   HERSELF  289 

about  the  foot  of  the  platform  in  Carnegie  Hall,  de- 
manding more,  more,  more,  after  a  generous  concert  is 
concluded.  He  had  to  learn  to  protect  himself  from 
those  hysterical,  enraptured,  wholly  feminine  adorers 
who  swarmed  about  him,  scaling  the  platform  itself. 
But  of  all  this  there  was  nothing  on  that  Friday  and 
Saturday  in  October.  Orchestra  Hall  audiences  are 
not,  as  a  rule,  wildly  demonstrative.  They  were  no  ex- 
ception. They  listened  attentively,  appreciatively. 
They  talked,  critically  and  favorably,  on  the  way  home. 
They  applauded  generously.  They  behaved  as  an  Or- 
chestra Hall  audience  always  behaves,  and  would  behave, 
even  if  it  were  confronted  with  a  composite  Elman- 
Kreisler-Ysaye  soloist.  Theodore's  playing  was,  as  a 
whole,  perhaps  the  worst  of  his  career.  Not  that  he  did 
not  rise  to  magnificent  heights  at  times.  But  it  was  what 
is  known  as  uneven  playing.  He  was  torn  emotionally, 
ner\'ously,  mentally.    His  playing  showed  it. 

Fanny,  seated  in  the  auditorium,  her  hands  clasped 
tight,  her  heart  hammering,  had  a  sense  of  unreality  as 
she  waited  for  Theodore  to  appear  from  the  little  door 
at  the  left.  He  was  to  play  after  the  intermission. 
Fanny  had  arrived  late,  with  Theodore,  that  Friday 
afternoon.  She  felt  she  could  not  sit  through  the  first 
part  of  the  program.  They  waited  together  in  the  ante- 
room.    Theodore,  looking  very  sHm  and  boyish  in  his 

!  frock  coat,  walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  Fanny 
wanted  to  straighten  his  tie.  She  wanted  to  pick  an 
imaginary  thread  off'  his  lapel.     She  wanted  to  adjust 

;  the  white  flower  in  his  buttonhole  (he  jerked  it  out  pres- 
ently, because  it  interfered  with  his  violin,  he  said). 
She  wanted  to  do  any  one  of  the  foolish,  futile  things 
that  would  have  served  to  relieve  her  own  surcharged 
feelings.  But  she  had  learned  control  in  these  years. 
And  she  yielded  to  none  of  them. 

The  things  they  said  and  did  were,  perhaps,  almost 
ludicrous. 


290  FANNY   HERSELF 

"How  do  I  look?"  Theodore  demanded,  and  stood  up 
before  her. 

"Beautiful !"  said  Fanny,  and  meant  it, 

Theodore  passed  a  hand  over  his  cheek.  "Cut  my- 
self shaving,  damn  it!" 

"It  doesn't  show." 

He  resumed  his  pacing.  Now  and  then  he  stopped, 
and  rubbed  his  hands  together  with  a  motion  we  use 
in  washing.    Finally : 

"I  wish  you'd  go  out  front,"  he  said,  almost  pet- 
tishly. Fanny  rose,  without  a  word.  She  looked  very 
handsome.  Excitement  had  given  her  color.  The  pu- 
pils of  her  eyes  were  dilated  and  they  shone  brilliantly. 
She  looked  at  her  brother.  He  stared  at  her.  They 
swayed  together.  They  kissed,  and  clung  together  for 
a  long  moment.  Then  Fanny  turned  and  walked 
swiftly  away,  and  stumbled  a  little  as  she  groped  for 
the  stairway. 

The  bell  in  the  foyer  rang.  The  audience  strolled  to 
the  auditorium.  They  lagged,  Fanny  thought.  They 
crawled.  She  told  herself  that  she  must  not  allow  her 
nerves  to  tease  her  like  that.  She  looked  about  her, 
with  outward  calm.  Her  eyes  met  Fenger's.  He  was 
seated,  alone.  It  was  he  who  had  got  a  subscription 
seat  for  her  from  a  friend.  She  had  said  she  preferred 
to  be  alone.  She  looked  at  him  now  and  he  at  her,  and 
they  did  not  nod  nor  smile.  The  house  settled  itself 
flutteringly. 

A  man  behind  Fanny  spoke,  "Who's  this  Bran- 
deis.?" 

"I  don't  know.  A  new  one.  German,  I  guess.  They 
say  he's  good.  Kreisler's  the  boy  who  can  play  for 
me,  though." 

The  orchestra  was  seated  now.  Stock,  the  con- 
ductOf,  came  out  from  the  little  side  door.  Behind 
him  walked  Theodore.  There  was  a  little,  impersonal 
burst   of   applause.      Stock   mounted   his   conductor's 


FANNY   HERSELF  291 

platform  and  glanced  paternally  down  at  Theodore, 
who  stood  at  the  left,  violin  and  bow  in  hand,  bowing. 
The  audience  seemed  to  warm  to  his  boyishness.  They 
applauded  again,  and  he  bowed  in  a  little  series  of 
jerky  bobs  that  waggled  his  coat-tails.  Heels  close  to- 
gether, knees  close  together.  A  German  bow.  And 
then  a  polite  series  of  bobs  addressed  to  Stock  and  his 
orchestra.  Stock's  long,  slim  hands  poised  in  air.  His 
fingertips  seemed  to  draw  from  the  men  before  him 
the  first  poignant  strains  of  Theodore's  concerto.  The- 
odore stood,  slim  and  straight.  Fanny's  face,  lifted 
toward  him,  was  a  prayerful  thing.  Theodore  sud- 
denly jerked  back  the  left  lapel  of  his  coat  in  a  little 
movement  Fanny  remembered  as  typical  in  his  boyish 
days,  nuzzled  his  violin  tenderly,  and  began  to  play. 

It  is  the  most  excruciating  of  instruments,  the  vio- 
lin, or  the  most  exquisite.  I  think  Fanny  actually 
heard  very  little  of  his  playing.  Her  hands  were  icy. 
Her  cheeks  were  hot.  The  man  before  her  was  not 
Theodore  Brandeis,  the  violinist,  but  Teddy,  the  bright- 
haired,  knickered  schoolboy  who  played  to  those  people 
seated  in  the  yellow  wooden  pews  of  the  temple  in  Win- 
nebago. The  years  seemed  to  fade  away.  He  crouched 
over  his  violin  to  get  the  'cello  tones  for  which  he  was 
to  become  famous,  and  it  was  the  same  hunched,  almost 
awkward  pose  that  the  boy  had  used.  Fanny  found 
herself  watching  his  feet  as  his  shifted  his  position.  He 
was  nervous.  And  he  was  not  taken  out  of  himself. 
She  knew  that  because  she  saw  the  play  of  his  muscles 
about  the  jaw-bone.  It  followed  that  he  was  not  play- 
ing his  best.  She  could  not  tell  that  from  listening  to 
him.  Her  music  sense  was  dulled.  She  got  it  from 
these  outward  signs.  The  woman  next  to  her  was  read- 
ing a  program  absorbedly,  turning  the  pages  regu- 
larly, and  with  care.  Fanny  could  have  killed  her  with 
her  two  hands.  She  tried  to  listen  detachedly.  The 
music  was  familiar  to  her.    Theodore  had  played  it  for 


L 


292  FANNY   HERSELF 

her,  again  and  again.  The  last  movement  Rad  never 
failed  to  shake  her  emotionally.  It  was  the  glorious 
and  triumphant  cry  of  a  people  tried  and  unafraid. 
She  heard  it  now,  unmoved. 

And  then  Theodore  was  bowing  his  little  jerky  bows, 
and  he  was  shaking  hands  with  Stock,  and  with  the 
First  Violin.  He  was  gone.  Fanny  sat  with  her  hands 
in  her  lap.  The  applause  continued.  Theodore  ap- 
peared again.  Bowed.  He  bent  very  low  now,  with  his 
arms  hanging  straight.  There  was  something  gracious 
and  courtly  about  him.  And  foreign.  He  must  keep 
that,  Fanny  thought.  They  like  it.  She  saw  him  off 
again.  More  applause.  Encores  were  against  the 
house  rules.  She  knew  that.  Then  it  meant  they  were 
pleased.  He  was  to  play  again.  A  group  of  Hun- 
garian dances  this  time.  They  were  wild,  gypsy  things, 
rising  to  frenzy  at  times.  He  played  them  with  spirit 
and  poetry.  To  listen  sent  the  blood  singing  through 
the  veins.  Fanny  found  herself  thinking  clearly  and 
exaltedly. 

"This  is  what  my  mother  drudged  for,  and  died  for, 
and  it  was  worth  it.  And  you  must  do  the  same,  if 
necessary.  Nothing  else  matters.  What  he  needs  now 
is  luxury.  He's  worn  out  with  fighting.  Ease. 
Peace.  Leisure.  You've  got  to  give  them  to  him.  It's 
no  use,  Fanny.    You  lose." 

In  that  moment  she  reached  a  mark  in  her  spiritual 
career  that  she  was  to  outdistance  but  once. 

Theodore  was  bowing  again.  Fanny  had  scarcely 
realized  that  he  had  finished.     The  concert  was  over. 

"...  the  group  of  dances,"  the  man  behind  her 
was  saying  as  he  helped  the  girl  next  him  with  her 
coat,  "but  I  didn't  like  that  first  thing.  Church  mu- 
sic, not  concert." 

Fanny  found  her  way  back  to  the  ante-room.  Theo- 
dore was  talking  to  the  conductor,  and  one  or  two 
others.     He  looked  tired,  and  his  eyes  found  Fanny's 


FANNY   HERSELF  293 

with  appeal  and  relief  in  them.  She  came  over  to  him. 
There  were  introductions,  congratulations.  Fanny 
slipped  her  hand  over  his  with  a  firm  pressure. 

"Come,  dear.    You  must  be  tired." 

At  the  door  they  found  Fenger  waiting.  Theodore 
received  his  well-worded  congratulations  with  an  ill- 
concealed  scowl.  ' 

"My  car's  waiting,"  said  Fenger.  "Won't  you  let 
me  take  you  home?" 

A  warning  pressure  from  Theodore.     "Thanks,  no.  - 
We  have  a  car.     Theodore's  very  tired." 

"I  can  quite  believe  that." 

"Not  tired,"  growled  Theodore,  like  a  great  boy. 
"I'm  hungry.     Starved.     I  never  eat  before  playing." 

Kurt  Stein,  Theodore's  manager,  had  been  hovering 
over  him  solicitously.  "You  must  remember  to-mor- 
row night.  I  should  advise  you  to  rest  now,  as  quickly 
as  possible."    He,  too,  glared  at  Fenger. 

Fenger  fell  back,  almost  humbly.  "I've  great  news 
for  you.  I  must  see  you  Sunday.  After  this  is  over. 
I'll  telephone  you.  Don't  try  to  come  to  work  to-mor- 
row."   All  this  is  a  hurried  aside  to  Fanny. 

Fanny  nodded  and  moved  away  with  Theodore. 

Theodore  leaned  back  in  the  car,  but  there  was  no 
hint  of  relaxation.  He  was  as  tense  and  vibrant  as  one 
of  his  own  violin  strings. 

"It  went,  didn't  it?  They're  like  clods,  these  Amer- 
ican audiences."  It  was  on  the  tip  of  Fanny's  tongue 
to  say  that  he  had  professed  indifference  to  audiences, 
but  she  wisely  refrained.  "Gad!  I'm  hungry.  What 
makes  this  Fenger  hang  around  so?  I'm  going  to  tell 
him  to  keep  away,  some  day.  The  way  he  stares  at 
you.  Let's  go  somewhere  to-night.  Fan.  Or  have 
some  people  in.  I  can't  sit  about  after  I've  played. 
Olga  always  used  to  have  a  supper  party,  or  some- 
thing." 

"All  right,  Ted.    Would  you  like  the  theater?" 


294  FANNY   HERSELF 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  a  little  whisper 
of  sympathy  for  the  despised  Olga.  Perhaps,  after 
;all,  she  had  not  been  wholly  to  blame. 

He  was  to  leave  Sunday  morning  for  Cleveland, 
where  he  would  play  Monday.  He  had  insisted  on 
taking  Mizzi  with  him,  though  Fanny  had  railed  and 
stormed.     Theodore  had  had  his  way. 

"She's  used  to  it.  She  likes  to  travel,  don't  you, 
Mizzi?  You  should  have  seen  her  in  Russia,  and  all 
over  Germany,  and  in  Sweden.  She's  a  better  traveler 
than  her  dad." 

Saturday  morning's  papers  were  kind,  but  cool. 
They  used  words  such  as  promising,  uneven,  overambi- 
tious,  gifted.  Theodore  crumpled  the  lot  into  a  ball 
and  hurled  them  across  the  room,  swearing  horribly. 
Then  he  smoothed  them  out,  clipped  them,  and  saved 
them  carefully.  His  playing  that  night  was  tinged 
ivith  bravado,  and  the  Saturday  evening  audience  rose 
to  it.  There  was  about  his  performance  a  glow,  a  spirit 
that  had  been  lacking  on  the  previous  day. 

Inconsistently  enough,  he  missed  the  antagonism  of 
^he  European  critics.    He  was  puzzled  and  resentful. 

"They  hardly  say  a  word  about  the  meaning  of  the 
concerto.  They  accept  it  as  a  piece  of  music,  Jewish 
in  theme.    It  might  as  well  be  entitled  Springtime." 

"This  isn't  France  or  Russia,"  said  Fanny.  "An- 
tagonism here  isn't  religious.  It's  personal,  almost. 
You've  been  away  so  many  years  you've  forgotten. 
They  don't  object  to  us  as  a  sect,  or  a  race,  but  as  a 
type.  That's  the  trouble,  Clarence  Heyl  says.  We're 
free  to  build  as  many  synagogues  as  we  like,  and  wor- 
ship in  them  all  day,  if  we  want  to.  But  we  don't 
want  to.  The  struggle  isn't  racial  any  more,  but  indi- 
vidual. For  some  reason  or  other  one  flashy,  loud- 
talking  Hebrew  in  a  restaurant  can  cause  more  ill  feel- 
ing than  ten  thousand  of  them  holding  a  religious  mass 
-meeting  in  Union  Square." 


fanny:  herself        295 

Theodore  pondered  a  moment.  ^'Then  here  each  one 
of  us  is  responsible.     Is  that  it?" 

"I  suppose  so."  ;hV 

"But  look  here.     I've  been  here  ten  weeks,  and  I've         ^^ 
met  jour  friends,  and  not  one  of  them  is  a  Jew.    How's 
that?" 

Fanny  flushed  a  little.    **0h,  it  just  worked  out  that ; 
way." 

Theodore  looked  at  her  hard.  "You  mean  you 
worked  it  out  that  way?" 

"Yes." 

"Fan,  we're  a  couple  of  weaklings,  both  of  us,  to 
have  sprung  from  a  mother  like  ours.  I  don't  know 
which  is  worse ;  my  selfishness,  or  yours."  Then,  at  the 
hurt  that  showed  in  her  face,  he  was  all  contrition. 
"Forgive  me,  Sis.  You've  been  so  wonderful  to  me, 
and  to  Mizzi,  and  to  all  of  us.  I'm  a  good-for-nothing 
fiddler,  that's  all.    You're  the  strong  one." 

Fenger  had  telephoned  her  on  Saturday.  He  and  his 
wife  were  at  their  place  in  the  country.  Fanny  was  to 
take  the  train  out  there  Sunday  morning.  She  looked 
forward  to  it  with  a  certain  relief.  The  weather  had 
turned  unseasonably  warm,  as  Chicago  Octobers  some- 
times do.  Up  to  the  last  moment  she  had  tried  to  shake 
Theodore's  determination  to  take  Mizzi  and  Otti  with 
him.    But  he  was  stubborn. 

"I've  got  to  have  her,"  he  said. 

Michael  Fenger's  voice  over  the  telephone  had  been 
as  vibrant  with  suppressed  excitement  as  Michael  Fen- 
ger's dry,  hard  tones  could  be. 

"Fanny,  it's  done — finished,"  he  said.  **We  had  a 
meeting  to-day.  This  is  my  last  month  with  Haynes- 
Cooper." 

"But  you  can't  mean  it.  Why,  you  are  Haynes- 
Cooper.    How  can  they  let  you  go  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  now.  We'll  go  over  it  all  to-mor- 
row.   I've  new  plans.    They've  bought  me  out.    D'you 


296  FANNY   HERSELF 

see?  At  a  price  that — ^well,  I  thought  I'd  got  used  to 
juggling  millions  at  Haynes-Cooper.  But  this  sur- 
prised even  me.  Will  you  come?  Early?  Take  the 
eight-ten." 

"That's  too  early.     I'll  get  the  ten." 

The  mid-October  country  was  a  lovely  thing.  Fanny, 
with  the  strain  of  Theodore's  debut  and  leave-taking 
behind  her,  and  the  prospect  of  a  high-tension  business 
talk  with  Fenger  ahead,  drank  in  the  beauty  of  the 
wayside  woods  gratefully. 

Fenger  met  her  at  the  station.  She  had  never  seen 
him  so  boyish,  so  exuberant.    He  almost  pranced. 

"Hop  in,"  he  said.  He  had  driven  down  in  a  run- 
about. "Brother  get  ofF  all  right?  Gad!  He  can 
play.  And  you've  made  the  whole  thing  possible."  He 
turned  to  look  at  her.     "You're  a  wonder." 

"In  your  present  frame  of  mind  and  state  of  being," 
laughed  Fanny,  '*you'd  consider  any  one  a  wonder. 
You're  so  pleased  with  yourself  you're  fairly 
gummy." 

Fenger  laughed  softly  and  sped  the  car  on.  They 
turned  in  at  the  gate.  There  was  scarlet  salvia,  now, 
to  take  the  place  of  the  red  geraniums.  The  gay  awn- 
ings, too,  were  gone. 

"This  is  our  last  week,"  Fenger  explained.  "It's  too 
cold  out  here  for  Katherine.  We're  moving  into  town 
to-morrow.  We're  more  or  less  camping  out  here, 
with  only  the  Jap  to  take  care  of  us." 

"Don't  apologize,  please.  I'm  grateful  just  to  be 
here,  after  the  week  I've  had.  Let's  have  the  news 
now." 

"We'll  have  lunch  first.  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to 
excuse  Katherine.  She  probably  won't  be  down  for 
lunch."  The  Jap  had  spread  the  luncheon  table  on  the 
veranda,  but  a  brisk  lake  breeze  had  sprung  up,  and 
he  was  busy  now  transferring  his  table  from  the  porch 
to  the  dining  room.     "Would  you  have  believed  it,'* 


FANNY   HERSELF  297 

said  Fenger,  "when  you  left  town?  Good  old  lake. 
Mrs.  Fenger  coming  down?"  to  the  man. 

The  Jap  shook  his  head.     "Nossa." 

dheir  talk  at  luncheon  was  all  about  Theodore  and 
his  future.  Fenger  said  that  what  Theodore  needed 
was  a  firm  and  guiding  hand.  "A  sort  of  combination 
manager  and  slave-driver.  An  ambitious  and  intelli- 
gent wife  would  do  it.  That's  what  we  all  need.  A 
woman  to  work  for,  and  to  make  us  work." 

Fanny  smiled.  "Mizzi  will  have  to  be  woman  enough, 
Fm  afraid.    Poor  Ted." 

They  rose.  "Now  for  the  talk,"  said  Fenger.  But 
the  telephone  had  sounded  shrilly  a  moment  before,  and 
the  omnipresent  little  Jap  summoned  Fenger.  He  was 
back  in  a  minute,  frowning.  "It's  Haynes.  Fm  sorry. 
I'm  afraid  it'll  take  a  half  hour  of  telephoning.  Don't 
you  want  to  take  a  cat-nap?  Or  a  stroU  down  to  the 
lake?" 

*'Don't  bother  about  me.  I'll  probably  take  a  run 
outdoors." 

"Be  back  in  half  an  hour." 

But  when  she  returned  he  was  still  at  the  telephone. 
She  got  a  book  and  stretched  luxuriously  among  the 
cushions  of  one  of  the  great  lounging  chairs,  and  fell 
asleep.  When  she  awoke  Fenger  was  seated  opposite 
her.  He  was  not  reading.  He  was  not  smoking.  He 
evidently  had  been  sitting  there,  looking  at  her. 

"Oh,  gracious!    Mouth  open?" 

"No." 

Fanny  fought  down  an  impulse  to  look  as  cross  as 
she  felt.  "What  time?  Why  didn't  you  wake  me?" 
The  house  was  very  quiet.  She  patted  her  hair  deftly, 
straightened  her  collar.  "Where's  everybody?  Isn't 
Mrs.  Fenger  down  yet?" 

"No.  Don't  you  want  to  hear  about  my  plans 
now?" 

"Of  course  I  do.    That's  what  I  came  for.    I  don't 


298        fanny:  herself 

see  why  you  didn't  tell  me  hours  ago.  You're  as  slo  v^ 
in  action  as  a  Chinese  play.    Out  with  it." 

Fenger  got  up  and  began  to  pace  the  floor,  not  ex- 
citedly, but  with  an  air  of  repression.  He  looked  very 
powerful  and  compelling,  there  in  the  low-ceilinged, 
luxurious  room.  "I'll  make  it  brief.  We  met  yester- 
day in  Haynes's  office.  Of  course  we  had  discussed  the 
thing  before.  You  know  that.  Haynes  knew  that  I'd 
never  run  the  plant  under  the  new  conditions.  Why, 
it  would  kill  every  efficiency  rule  I've  ever  made.  Here 
I  had  trimmed  that  enormous  plant  down  to  fighting 
weight.  There  wasn't  a  useless  inch  or  ounce  about 
the  whole  enormous  billionaire  bulk  of  it.  And  then  to 
have  Haynes  come  along,  with  his  burdensome  notions, 
and  his  socialistic  slop.  They'd  cripple  any  business, 
no  matter  how  great  a  start  it  had.  I  told  him  all  that. 
We  didn't  waste  much  time  on  argument,  though.  We 
knew  we'd  never  get  together.  In  half  an  hour  we  were 
talking  terms.  You  know  my  contract  and  the  amount 
of  stock  I  hold.  Well,  we  threshed  that  out,  and 
Haynes  is  settling  for  two  million  and  a  half." 

He  came  to  a  stop  before  Fanny's  chair. 

"Two  million  and  a  half  what.'*"  asked  Fanny, 
feebly. 

"Dollars."    He  smiled  rather  grimly.    "In  a  check." 

"One— check.?" 

"One  check." 

Fanny  digested  that  In  her  orderly  mind.  **I  thought 
I  was  used  to  thinking  in  millions.  But  this — I'd  like 
to  touch  the  check,  just  once." 

"You  shall."  He  drew  up  a  chair  near  her.  "Now 
get  this,  Fanny.  There's  nothing  that  you  and  I  can't 
do  with  two  millions  and  a  half.  Nothing.  We  know 
this  mail  order  game  as  no  two  people  in  the  world 
know  it.  And  it's  in  its  infancy.  I  know  the  technical 
side  of  it.  You  know  the  human  side  of  it.  I  tell  you 
that  in  five  years'  time  you  and  I  can  be  a  national 


FANNY   HERSELF  299 

power.  Not  merely  the  heads  of  a  prosperous  mail 
order  business,  but  figures  in  finance.  See  what's  hap- 
pened to  Haynes-Cooper  in  the  last  five  years!  Why, 
it's  incredible.  It's  grotesque.  And  it's  nothing  to 
what  you  and  I  can  do,  working  together.  You  know 
people,  somehow.  You've  a  genius  for  sensing  their 
wants,  or  feelings,  or  emotions — I  don't  know  just  what 
it  is.  And  I  know  facts.  And  we  have  two  million  and 
a  half — I  can  make  it  nearly  three  millions — to  start 
with.  Haynes,  fifteen  years  ago,  had  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred thousand.  In  five  years  we  can  make  the  Haynes- 
Cooper  organization  look  as  modern  and  competent  as 
a  cross-roads  store.  This  isn't  a  dream.  These  are 
facts.  You  know  how  my  mind  works.  Like  a  cold 
chisel.  I  can  see  this  whole  country — and  Europe,  too, 
after  the  war — God,  yes ! — stretched  out  before  us  like 
a  patient  before  expert  surgeons.  You  to  attend  to  its 
heart,  and  I  to  its  bones  and  ligaments.  I  can  put  you 
where  no  other  woman  has  ever  been.  I've  a  hundred 
new  plans  this  minute,  and  a  hundred  more  waiting  to 
be  born.  So  have  you.  I  tell  you  it's  just  a  matter  of 
buildings.  Of  bricks  and  stone,  and  machinery  and 
people  to  make  the  machinery  go.  Once  we  get  those — 
and  it's  only  a  matter  of  months — we  can  accomplish 
things  I  daren't  even  dream  of.  What  was  Haynes- 
Cooper  fifteen  years  ago?  What  was  the  North  Amer- 
ican Cloak  and  Suit  Company?  The  Peter  Johnston 
Stores,  of  New  York?  Wells-Kayser?  Nothing.  They 
didn't  exist.  And  this  year  Haynes-Cooper  is  declar- 
ing a  twenty-five  per  cent  dividend.  Do  you  get  what 
that  means?  But  of  course  you  do.  That's  the  wonder 
of  it.  I  never  need  explain  things  to  you.  You've  a 
genius  for  understanding." 

Fanny  had  been  sitting  back  in  her  chair,  crouching 
almost,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  man's  face,  so  terrible 
in  its  earnestness  and  indomitable  strength.  When  he 
stopped  talking  now,  and  stood  looking  down  at  her. 


300  FANNY   HERSELF 

she  rose,  too,  her  eyes  still  on  his  face.  She  was  twist- 
ing the  fingers  of  one  hand  in  the  fingers  of  the  other, 
in  a  frightened  sort  of  way. 

"I'm  not  really  a  business  woman.  I — wait  a  min- 
ute, please — I  have  a  knack  of  knowing  what  people 
are  thinking  and  wanting.  But  that  isn't  business." 
;  "It  isn't,  eh?  It's  the  finest  kind  of  business  sense. 
It's  the  thing  the  bugs  call  psychology,  and  it's  as  nec- 
essary to-day  as  capital  was  yesterday.  You  can  get 
along  without  the  last.  You  can't  without  the  first. 
One  can  be  acquired.  The  other  you've  got  to  be  born 
with." 

"But  I — you  know,  of  late,  it's  only  the  human  side 
of  it  that  has  appealed  to  me.  I  don't  know  why.  I 
seem  to  have  lost  interest  in  the  actual  mechanics  of 
it." 

Fenger  stood  looking  at  her,  his  head  lowered.  A 
scarlet  stripe,  that  she  had  never  noticed  before, 
seemed  to  stand  out  suddenly,  like  a  welt,  on  his  fore- 
head. Then  he  came  toward  her.  She  raised  her  hand 
in  a  little  futile  gesture.  She  took  an  involuntary  step 
backward,  encountered  the  chair  she  had  just  left,  and 
sank  into  it  coweringly.  She  sat  there,  looking  up  at 
him,  fascinated.  His  hand,  on  the  wing  of  the  great 
chair,  was  shaking.    So,  too,  was  his  voice. 

"Fanny,  Katherine's  not  here." 

Fanny  still  looked  up  at  him,  wordlessly. 

"Katherine  left  here  yesterday.  She's  in  town." 
Then,  at  the  look  in  her  face,  "She  was  here  when  I 
telephoned  you  yesterday.  Late  yesterday  afternoon 
she  had  one  of  her  fantastic  notions.  She  insisted  that 
she  must  go  into  town.  It  was  too  cold  for  her  here. 
Too  damp.  Too — ^well,  she  went.  And  I  let  her  go. 
And  I  didn't  telephone  you  again.  I  wanted  you  to 
come." 

Fanny  Brandeis,  knowing  him,  must  have  felt  a  great 
qualm  of  terror  and  helplessness.    But  she  was  angry,! 


FANNY   HERSELF  301 

too,  a  wholesome  ingredient  in  a  situation  such  as  this. 
The  thing  she  said  and  did  now  was  inspired.  She 
laughed — a  little  uncertainly,  it  is  true — but  still  she 
laughed.     And  she  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone: 

"Well,  I  must  say  that's  a  rather  shabby  trick.  Still, 
I  suppose  the  tired  business  man  has  got  to  have  his 
little  melodrama.  What  do  I  do?  H'm?  Beat  my 
breast  and  howl?    Or  pound  on  the  door  panel?" 

Fenger  stood  looking  at  her.  "Don't  laugh  at  me, 
Fanny.'' 

She  stood  up,  still  smiling.  It  was  rather  a  brilliant 
piece  of  work.  Fenger,  taken  out  of  himself  thougt 
he  was,  still  was  artist  enough  to  appreciate  it.  ' 

"Why  not  laugh,"  she  said,  "if  I'm  amused?  And 
I  am.  Come  now,  Mr.  Fenger.  Be  serious.  And  let*s 
get  back  to  the  billions.  I  want  to  catch  the  five-fif- 
teen." 

"I  am  serious." 

"Well,  if  you  expect  me  to  play  the  hunted  heroine, ' 
I'm  sorry."     She  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at  him. ' 
"I   know   now.     You're    quitting   Haynes-Cooper    for 
the  movies.     And  this  is  a  rehearsal  for  a  vampire 
film."  ^     ! 

"You  nervy  little  devil,  you !"  He  reached  out  with 
one  great,  irresistible  hand  and  gripped  her  shoulder. 
"You  wonderful,  glorious  girl !"  The  hand  that  gripped 
her  shoulder  swung  her  to  him.  She  saw  his  face  with 
veins  she  had  never  noticed  before  standing  cut,  in 
knots,  on  his  temples,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  and  queer. 
And  he  was  talking,  rather  incoherently,  and  lapidly. 
He  was  saying  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again: 
"I'm  crazy  about  you.  I've  been  looking  for  a  woman 
like  you — all  my  life.  I'm  crazy  about  yo!£..  I'm 
crazy " 

And  then  Fanny's  fine  composure  and  self-control 
fled,  and  she  thought  of  her  mother.  She  began  to 
struggle,  too,  and  to  say,  like  any  other  girl,  "Let  me 


302  FANNY   HERSELF 

go!  Let  me  go!  You're  hurting  me.  Let  me  go! 
You!    You!" 

And  then,  quite  clearly,  from  that  part  of  her  brain 
where  it  had  been  tucked  away  until  she  should  need  it, 
came  Clarence  Heyl's  whimsical  bit  of  advice.  Her 
mind  released  it  now,  complete. 

"If  you  double  your  fist  this  way,  and  tuck  your 
thumb  alongside,  like  that,  and  aim  for  this  spot  right 
here,  about  two  inches  this  side  of  the  chin,  bringing 
your  arm  back  and  up  quickly,  like  a  piston,  the  per- 
son you  hit  will  go  down,  limp.  There's  a  nerve  right 
here  that  communicates  with  the  brain.  The  blow 
makes  you  see  stars,  and  bright  lights " 

She  went  limp  in  his  arms.  She  shut  her  eyes,  flut- 
teringly.  "All  men — ^like  you — have  a  yellow  streak," 
she  whispered,  and  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  up  at 
him,  smiling  a  little.  He  relaxed  his  hold,  in  surprise 
and  relief.  And  with  her  eyes  on  that  spot  barely  two 
inches  to  the  side  of  the  chin  she  brought  her  right 
arm  down,  slowly,  slowly,  fist  doubled,  and  then  up  like 
a  piston — snap !  His  teeth  came  together  with  a  sharp 
little  crack.  His  face,  in  that  second,  was  a  comic 
mask,  surprised,  stunned,  almost  idiotic.  Then  he  went 
down,  as  Clarence  Heyl  had  predicted,  limp.  Not  with 
a  crash,  but  slowly,  crumpingly,  so  that  he  almost 
dragged  her  with  him. 

Fanny  stood  looking  down  at  him  a  moment.  Then 
she  wiped  her  mouth  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  She 
walked  out  of  the  room,  and  down  the  hall.  She  saw 
the  little  Jap  dart  suddenly  back  from  a  doorway,  and 
she  stamped  her  foot  and  said,  "S-s-cat !"  as  if  he  had 
been  a  rat.  She  gathered  up  her  hat  and  bag  from  the 
hall  table,  and  so,  out  of  the  door,  and  down  the  walk, 
to  the  road.  And  then  she  began  to  run.  She  ran, 
and  ran,  and  ran.  It  was  a  longish  stretch  to  the 
pretty,  vine-covered  station.  She  seemed  unconscious 
of  fatigue,  or  distance.     She  must  have  been  at  least  a 


fanny:  herself        303 

half  hour  on  the  way.  When  she  reached  the  station 
the  ticket  agent  told  her  there  was  no  train  until  six. 
So  she  waited,  quietly.  She  put  on  her  hat  (she  had 
carried  it  in  her  hand  all  the  way)  and  patted  her  hair 
into  place.  When  the  train  came  she  found  a  seat  quite 
alone,  and  sank  into  its  corner,  and  rested  her  head 
against  her  open  palm.  It  was  not  until  then  that  she 
felt  a  stab  of  pain.  She  looked  at  her  hand,  and  saw 
that  the  skin  of  her  knuckles  was  bruised  and  bleeding. 

"Well,  if  this,"  she  said  to  herself,  "isn't  the  most 
idiotic  thing  that  ever  happened  to  a  woman  outside 
a  near-novel." 

She  looked  at  her  knuckles,  critically,  as  though  the 
hand  belonged  to  some  one  else.  Then  she  smiled. 
'And  even  as  she  smiled  a  great  lump  came  into  her 
throat,  and  the  bruise  blurred  before  her  eyes,  and 
she  was  crying  rackingly,  relievedly,5  huddled  there  in 
her  red  plush  corner^ 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 

IT  was  eight  o'clock  when  she  let  herself  into  her 
apartment.  She  had  given  the  maid  a  whole  holi- 
day. When  Fanny  had  turned  on  the  light  in  her  little 
haDway  she  stood  there  a  moment,  against  the  door, 
her  hand  spread  flat  against  the  panel.  It  was  almost 
as  though  she  patted  it,  lovingly,  gratefully.  Then 
she  went  on  into  the  living  room,  and  stood  looking  at 
its  rosy  lamplight.  Then,  still  as  though  seeing  it  all 
for  the  first  time,  into  her  own  quiet,  cleanly  bedroom, 
with  its  cream  enamel,  and  the  chaise  longue  that  she 
had  had  cushioned  in  rose  because  it  contrasted  so  be- 
comingly with  her  black  hair.  And  there,  on  her  dress- 
ing table,  propped  up  against  the  brushes  and  bottles, 
was  the  yellow  oblong  of  a  telegram.  From  Theodore 
of  course.  She  opened  it  with  a  rush  of  happiness.  It 
was  like  a  loving  hand  held  out  to  her  in  need.  It  was 
a  day  letter. 

"We  sail  Monday  on  the  St,  Paid,  Mizzi  is  with 
me.  I  broke  my  word  to  you.  But  you  lied  to  me 
about  the  letters.  I  found  them  the  week  before  the 
concert.  I  shall  bring  her  back  with  me  or  stay  to 
fight  for  Germany.    Forgive  me,  dear  sister." 

Just  fifty  words.    His  thrifty  German  training. 

"No !"  cried  Fanny,  aloud.  "No !  No !"  And  the 
cry  quavered  and  died  away,  and  another  took  its  place, 
and  it,  too,  gave  way  to  another,  so  that  she  was  moan- 
ing as  she  stood  there  with  the  telegram  in  her  shak- 
ing hand.     She  read  it  again,  her  lips  moving,  as  old 

SOi 


FANNY   HERSELF  305 

people  sometimes  read.  Then  she  began  to  whimper, 
with  her  closed  fist  over  her  mouth,  her  whole  body 
shaking.  All  her  fine  courage  gone  now;  all  her  rigid 
self-discipline ;  all  her  iron  determination.  She  was  not 
a  tearful  woman.  And  she  had  wept  much  on  the  train. 
So  the  thing  that  wrenched  and  shook  her  now  was  all 
the  more  horrible  because  of  its  Boundlessness.  She 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  pushing  her  hair  back 
from  her  forehead  with  the  flat  of  her  hand.  From 
time  to  time  she  smoothed  out  the  crumpled  yellow  slip 
of  paper  and  read  it  again.  Her  mind,  if  you  could 
have  seen  into  it,  would  have  presented  a  confused  and 
motley  picture.  Something  like  this :  But  his  concert 
engagements?  .  .  .  That  was  what  had  happened  to 
Bauer.  .  .  .  How  silly  he  had  looked  when  her  fist  met 
his  j  aw.  ...  It  had  turned  cold ;  why  didn't  they  have 
steam  on?  The  middle  of  October.  .  .  .  Teddy,  how 
could  you  do  it!  How  could  you  do  it!  .  .  .  Was  he 
still  lying  in  a  heap  on  the  floor?  But  of  course  the 
sneaking  little  Jap  had  found  him.  .  .  .  Somebody  to 
talk  to.  That  was  what  she  wanted.  Some  one  to  talk 
to.  .  .  . 

Some  one  to  talk  to.  She  stood  there,  in  the  middle 
of  her  lamp-lighted  living  room,  and  she  held  out  her 
hands  in  silent  appeal.  Some  one  to  talk  to.  In  her 
mind  she  went  over  the  list  of  those  whose  lives  had 
touched  hers  in  the  last  few  crowded  years.  Fenger, 
Fascinating  Facts,  Ella  Monahan,  Nathan  Haynes ;  all 
the  gay,  careless  men  and  women  she  had  met  from  time 
to  time  through  Fenger  and  Fascinating  Facts.  Not 
one  of  them  could  she  turn  to  now. 

Clarence  Heyl.  She  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  Clar- 
ence Heyl.  He  had  helped  her  once,  to-day.  And  now, 
for  the  second  time,  something  that  he  had  said  long 
before  came  from  its  hiding  place  in  her  subcociscious 
mind.     She  had  said: 

**Some  days  I  feel  I've  got  to  walk  out  of  the  office. 


306  FANNY   HERSELF 

and  down  the  street,  without  a  hat,  and  on  and  on, 
walking  and  walking,  and  running  and  running  till  I 
come  to  the  horizon." 

And  Heyl  had  answered,  in  his  quiet,  reassuring  way : 
*'Some  day  that  feeling  will  get  too  strong  for  you. 
When  that  time  comes  get  on  a  train  marked  Denver. 
From  there  take  another  to  Estes  Park.  That's  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  where  the  horizon  lives  and  has  its 
being.  Ask  for  Heyl's  place.  They'll  hand  you  from 
one  to  the  other.  I  may  be  there,  but  more  likely  I 
shan't.  The  key's  in  the  mail  box,  tied  to  a  string. 
You'll  find  a  fire  laid  with  fat  pine  knots.  My  books 
are  there.  The  bedding's  in  the  cedar  chest.  And  the 
mountains  will  make  you  clean  and  whole  again;  and 
the  pines  ..." 

I  Fanny  went  to  the  telephone.  Trains  for  Denver. 
She  found  the  road  she  wanted,  and  asked  for  informa- 
tion. She  was  on  her  own  ground  here.  All  her  life 
she  had  had  to  find  her  own  trains,  check  her  own 
trunks,  plan  her  journeys.  Sometimes  she  had  envied 
the  cotton-wool  women  who  had  had  all  these  things 
done  for  them,  always. 

One-half  of  her  mind  was  working  clearly  and  coolly. 
The  other  half  was  numb.  There  were  things  to  be 
done.  They  would  take  a  day.  More  than  a  day,  but 
she  would  neglect  most  of  them.  She  must  notify  the 
office.  There  were  tickets  to  be  got.  Reservations. 
Money  at  the  bank.  Packing.  When  the  maid  came 
in  at  eleven  Fanny  had  suitcases  and  bags  out,  and  her 
bedroom  was  strewn  with  shoes,  skirts,  coats. 

Late  Monday  afternoon  Fenger  telephoned.  She  did 
not  answer.  There  came  a  note  from  him,  then  a  tele- 
gram. She  did  not  read  them.  Tuesday  found  her 
on  a  train  bound  for  Colorado.  She  remembered  little 
of  the  first  half  of  her  journey.  She  had  brought  with 
her  books  and  magazines,  and  she  must  have  read 
them,  but  her  mind  had  evidently  retained  nothing  of 


FANNY   HERSELF  307 

what  she  had  read.  She  must  have  spent  hours  looking 
out  of  the  window,  for  she  remembered,  long  afterward, 
the  endlessness  and  the  monotony  of  the  Kansas  prai- 
ries. They  soothed  her.  She  was  glad  there  were  no 
bits  of  autumnal  woodland,  no  tantalizing  vistas,  noth- 
ing to  break  the  flat  and  boundless  immensity  of  it. 
Here  was  something  big,  and  bountiful,  and  real,  and 
primal.  Good  Kansas  dirt.  Miles  of  it.  Miles  of  it. 
She  felt  she  would  like  to  get  out  and  tramp  on  it, 
hard. 

"Pretty  cold  up  there  in  Estes  Park,"  the  conductor 
had  said.    "Been  snowing  up  in  the  mountains." 

She  had  arranged  to  stop  in  Denver  only  long  enough 
to  change  trains.  A  puffy  Kttle  branch  line  was  to  take 
her  from  Denver  to  Loveland,  and  there,  she  had  been 
told,  one  of  the  big  mountain-road  steam  automobiles 
would  take  her  up  the  mountains  to  her  destination. 
For  one  as  mentally  alert  as  she  normally  was,  the  ex- 
act  location  of  that  destination  was  very  hazy  in  her 
mind.  Heyl's  place.  That  was  all.  Ordinarily  she 
would  have  found  the  thought  ridiculous.  But  she  con- 
centrated on  it  now;  clung  to  it. 

At  the  first  glimpse  of  the  foot-hills  Fanny's  listless 
gaze  became  interested.  If  you  have  ever  traveled  on 
the  jerky,  cleanly,  meandering  little  road  that  runs  be- 
tween Denver  and  the  Park  you  know  that  it  winds, 
and  curves,  so  that  the  mountains  seem  to  leap  about, 
friskily,  first  confronting  you  on  one  side  of  the  car 
window,  then  disappearing  and  seeming  to  taunt  you 
from  the  windows  of  the  opposite  side.  Fanny  laughed 
aloud.  The  mountain  steam-car  was  waiting  at  Love- 
land.  There  were  few  passengers  at  this  time  of  year. 
The  driver  was  a  great  tanned  giant,  pongee  colored 
from  his  hair  to  his  puttees  and  boots.  Fanny  was  to 
learn,  later,  that  in  Estes  Park  the  male  tourist  was 
likely  to  be  puny,  pallid,  and  unattractive  when  com- 
pared to  the  tall,  slim,   straight,  khaki-clad  youth. 


308  FANNY   HERSELF 

browned  by  the  sun,  and  the  wind,  and  the  dust,  who 
drives  his  steamer  up  and  down  the  perilous  mountain 
roads  with  more  dexterity  than  the  charioteering  gods 
ever  displayed  on  Olympus. 

Fann}^  got  the  seat  beside  this  glorious  person.  The 
steamer  was  a  huge  vehicle,  boasting  five  rows  of  seats, 
and  looking  very  much  like  a  small  edition  of  the  sight- 
seeing cars  one  finds  in  tourist-infested  cities. 

"HeyPs  place,"  said  Fanny.  Suppose  it  failed  to 
Work! 

Said  the  blond  god,  "Stopping  at  the  Inn  overnight, 
I  s'pose." 

;  "Why— I  don't  know,"  faltered  Fanny.  "Can't  I 
go  right  on  to — to — Heyl's  place?" 

"Can."  Mountain  steamer  men  are  not  loquacious. 
**Sure.  Better  not.  You  won't  get  to  the  Inn  till  dark. 
Better  stay  there  over  night,  and  go  on  up  to  Heyl's 
place  in  the  morning." 

Then  he  leaned  forward,  clawed  about  expertly 
among  what  appeared  to  Fanny's  eyes  to  be  a  maze  of 
handles,  brakes,  valves ;  and  the  great  car  glided 
smoothly  off,  without  a  bump,  without  a  jar.  Fanny 
took  a  long  breath. 

There  is  no  describing  a  mountain.  One  uses  words, 
and  they  are  futile.  And  the  Colorado  Rockies,  in 
October,  when  the  aspens  are  turning!  Well,  aspens 
turn  gold  in  October.  People  who  have  seen  an  aspen 
grove  in  October  believe  in  fairies.  And  such  people 
need  no  clumsy  descriptive  passages  to  aid  their  fancies. 
You  others  who  have  not  seen  it.?  There  shall  be  no 
poor  weaving  together  of  words.  There  shall  be  no 
description  of  orange  and  mauve  and  flame-colored  sun- 
sets, no  juggling  with  mists  and  clouds,  and  sunrises 
and  purple  mountains.  Mountain  dwellers  and  moun- 
tain lovers  are  a  laconic  tribe.  They  know  the  futility 
of  words. 

But  the  effect  of  the  mountains  on  Fanny  Brandeis. 


■  M' 

a 

Uj 

1 

^^^HPir     ,/\^^v 

n 

i 

i 

li 

A                            J 

N 

^^^^Hk^  mil  % 

:>;^^m        SH 

«f^[^H 

Wl                                         \'WKi^ 

1 

^^ 

'You  nervy  little  devil,  you!' 


—Page  SOI 


FANNY  HERSELF  309 

That  IS  within  our  province.  In  the  first  place,  they 
made  her  hungry.  That  was  the  crisp,  heady  air.  The 
mountain  road,  to  one  who  has  never  traveled  it,  is  a 
thing  of  delicious  thrills  and  near-terror,  A  narrow, 
perilous  ribbon  of  road,  cut  in  the  side  of  the  rock  it- 
self; a  road  all  horseshoe  curves  and  hairpin  twists. 
Fanny  found  herself  gasping.  But  that  passed  after 
a  time.  Big  Thompson  canyon  leaves  no  room  for  petty 
terror.  And  the  pongee  person  was  so  competent,  so 
quietly  sure,  so  angularly  graceful  among  his  brakes 
and  levers.  Fanny  stole  a  side  glance  at  him  now  and 
then.  He  looked  straight  ahead.  When  you  drive  a 
mountain  steamer  you  do  look  straight  ahead.  A 
glance  to  the  right  or  left  is  so  likely  to  mean  death, 
or  at  best  a  sousing  in  the  Thompson  that  foams  and 
rushes  below. 

Fanny  ventured  a  question.  "Do  you  know  Mr. 
Heyl?" 

"Heyl.?    Took  him  down  day  before  yesterday." 

"Down.?" 

"To  the  village.     He's  gone  back  east.'* 

Fanny  was  not  quite  sure  whether  the  pang  she  felt 
was  relief  or  consternation. 

At  Estes  village  the  blond  god  handed  her  over  to 
a  twin  charioteer  who  would  drive  her  up  the  mountain 
road  to  the  Inn  that  nestled  in  a  valley  nine  thousand 
feet  up  the  mountain.  It  was  a  drive  Fanny  never  for- 
got. Fenger,  Ted,  Haynes-Cooper,  her  work,  her 
plans,  her  ambitions,  seemed  to  dwindle  to  puny  insig- 
nificance beside  the  vast  grandeur  that  unfolded  before 
her  at  every  fresh  turn  in  the  road.  Up  they  went, 
and  up,  and  up,  and  the  air  was  cold,  but  without  a 
sting  in  it.  It  was  dark  when  the  lights  of  the  Inn 
twinkled  out  at  them.  The  door  was  thrown  open  as 
they  swung  up  the  curve  to  the  porch.  A  great  log 
fire  glowed  in  the  fireplace.  The  dining  room  held  only 
a  dozen  people,  or  thereabouts — a  dozen  weary,  healthy 


810  FANNY   HERSELF 

people,  in  corduroys  and  sweaters  and  boots,  whose 
cleanly  talk  was  all  about  climbing  and  fishing,  and 
horseback  rides  and  trails.  And  it  was  fried  chicken 
night  at  the  Inn.  Fanny  thought  she  was  too  utterly 
tired  to  eat,  until  she  began  to  eat,  and  then  she  thought 
she  was  too  hungry  ever  to  stop.  After  dinner  she 
sat,  for  a  moment,  before  the  log  fire  in  the  low- 
ceilinged  room,  with  its  log  walls,  its  rustic  benches, 
and  its  soft-toned  green  and  brown  cushions.  She  for- 
got to  be  unhappy.  She  forgot  to  be  anything  but 
deliciously  drowsy.  And  presently  she  climbed  the 
winding  stair  whose  newel  post  was  a  fire-marked  tree 
trunk,  richly  colored,  and  curiously  twisted.  And  so 
to  her  lamp-lighted  room,  very  small,  very  clean,  very 
quiet.  She  opened  her  window  and  looked  out  at  the 
towering  mass  that  was  Long's  Peak,  and  at  the  stars, 
and  she  heard  the  busy  little  brook  that  scurries 
through  the  Inn  yard  on  its  way  from  the  mountain  to 
the  valley.  She  undressed  quickly,  and  crept  into  bed, 
meaning  to  be  very,  very  miserable  indeed.  And  the 
next  thing  she  knew  it  was  morning.  A  blue  and  gold 
October  morning.  And  the  mountains! — but  there  is 
no  describing  a  mountain.  One  uses  words,  and  they 
are  futile.  Fanny  viewed  them  again,  from  her  win- 
dow, between  pauses  in  dressing.  And  she  meant,  pri- 
vately, to  be  miserable  again.  But  she  could  only  think, 
somehow,  of  bacon  and  eggs,  and  coffee,  and  muffins. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 

HEYL'S  place.  Fanny  stood  before  it,  key  in  hand 
(she  had  found  it  in  the  mail  box,  tied  to  a 
string),  and  she  had  a  curious  and  restful  feeling,  as 
if  she  had  come  home,  after  long  wanderings.  She 
smiled,  whimsically,  and  repeated  her  lesson  to  herself: 

"The  fire's  laid  in  the  fireplace  with  fat  pine  knots 
that  will  blaze  up  at  the  touch  of  a  match.  My  books 
are  there,  along  the  wall.  The  bedding's  in  the  cedar 
chest,  and  the  lamps  are  filled.  There's  tinned  stuff  in 
the  pantry.  And  the  mountains  are  there,  girl,  to 
make  you  clean  and  whole  again.  ..." 

She  stepped  up  to  the  little  log-pillared  porch  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock.  She  opened  the  door  wide, 
and  walked  in.  And  then  she  shut  her  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment.    Because,  if  it  shouldn't  be  true 

But  there  was  a  fire  laid  with  fat  pine  knots.  She 
walked  straight  over  to  it,  and  took  her  box  of  matches 
from  her  bag,  struck  one,  and  held  it  to  the  wood. 
They  blazed  like  a  torch.  Books!  Along  the  four 
walls,  books.  Fat,  comfortable,  used-looking  books. 
Hundreds  of  them.  A  lamp  on  the  table,  and  beside  it 
a  pipe,  blackened  from  much  use.  Fanny  picked  it  up, 
smiling.  She  held  it  a  moment  in  her  hand,  as  though 
she  expected  to  find  it  still  warm. 

"It's  like  one  of  the  fairy  tales,"  she  thought,  "the 
kind  that  repeats  and  repeats.  The  kind  that  says, 
*and  she  went  into  the  next  room,  and  it  was  as  the 
good  fairy  had  said.'  " 

There's  tinned  stuff  in  the  pantry.  She  went  into  the 
tiny  kitchen  and  opened  the  pantry  door  cautiously, 


312  FANNY   HERSELF 

being  wary  of  mice.  But  it  met  her  eye  in  spotless 
array.  Orderly  rows  of  tins.  Orderly  rows  of  bottles. 
Coffee.  Condensed  milk.  Beans.  Spaghetti.  Flour. 
Peaches.    Pears. 

Off  the  bedroom  there  was  an  absurdly  adequate 
little  bathroom,  with  a  zinc  tub  and  an  elaborate  wa- 
ter-heating arrangement. 

Fanny  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  as  she  hadn't 
laughed  in  months.  "Wild  life  in  .the  Rockies,"  she 
said  aloud.  She  went  back  to  the  book-lined  living 
room.  The  fire  was  crackling  gloriously.  It  was  a 
many-windowed  room,  and  each  window  framed  an  en- 
chanting glimpse  of  mountain,  flaming  with  aspens 
up  to  timber-line,  and  snow-capped  at  the  top.  Fanny 
decided  to  wait  until  the  fire  had  died  down  to  a  coal- 
bed.  Then  she  banked  it  carefully,  put  on  a  heavy 
sweater  and  a  cap,  and  made  for  the  outdoors.  She 
struck  out  briskly,  tenderfoot  that  she  was.  In  five 
minutes  she  was  panting.  Her  heart  was  hammering 
suffocatingly.  Her  lungs  ached.  She  stopped,  trem- 
bling. Then  she  remembered.  The  altitude,  of  course. 
Heyl  had  boasted  that  his  cabin  stood  at  an  altitude 
of  over  nine  thousand  feet.  Well,  she  would  have  to 
get  used  to  it.  But  she  was  soon  striding  forward  as 
briskly  as  before.  She  was  a  natural  mountain  dweller. 
The  air,  the  altitude,  speeded  up  her  heart,  her  lungs, 
sent  the  blood  dancing  through  her  veins.  Figura- 
tively, she  was  on  tip-toe. 

They  had  warned  her,  at  the  Inn,  to  take  it  slowly 
for  the  first  few  days.  They  had  asked  no  questions. 
Fanny  learned  to  heed  their  advice.  She  learned  many 
more  things  in  the  next  few  days.  She  learned  how  to 
entice  the  chipmunks  that  crossed  her  path,  streak  o' 
sunshine,  streak  o'  shadow.  She  learned  to  broil  bacon 
over  a  fire,  with  a  forked  stick.  She  learned  to  ride 
trail  ponies,  and  to  bask  in  a  sun-warmed  spot  on  a 
wind-swept  hill;  and  to  tell  time  by  the  sun,  and  to  give 


FANNY   HERSELF.  313 

thanks  for  the  beauty  of  the  world  about  her,  and  to 
leave  the  wild  flowers  unpicked,  to  put  out  her  camp- 
fire  with  scrupulous  care,  and  to  destroy  all  rubbish 
(your  true  woodsman  and  mountaineer  is  as  painstak- 
ingly neat  as  a  French  housewife). 

She  was  out  of  doors  all  day.  At  night  she  read  for 
a  while  before  the  fire,  but  by  nine  her  eyehds  were 
heavy.  She  walked  down  to  the  Inn  sometimes,  but  not 
often.  One  memorable  night  she  went,  with  half  a 
dozen  others  from  the  Inn,  to  the  tiny  one-room  cabin 
of  Oscar,  the  handy  man  about  the  Inn,  and  there  she 
listened  to  one  of  Oscar's  far-famed  phonograph  con- 
certs. Oscar's  phonograph  had  cost  twenty-five  dollars 
in  Denver.  It  stood  in  one  corner  of  his  cabin,  and 
its  base  was  a  tree  stump  just  five  hundred  years  old, 
as  you  could  tell  for  yourself  by  counting  its  rings. 
His  cabin  walls  were  gorgeous  with  pictures  of  Maxine 
Elliott  in  her  palmy  days,  and  blonde  and  sophisticated 
little  girls  on  Vinegar  calendars,  posing  bare-legged 
and  self-conscious  in  blue  calico  and  sunbonnets.  You 
sat  in  the  warm  yellow  glow  of  Oscar's  lamp  and  were 
regaled  with  everything  from  the  Swedish  National 
Anthem  to  Mischa  Elman's  tenderest  crooning.  And 
Oscar  sat  rapt,  his  weather-beaten  face  a  rich  deep 
mahogany,  his  eyes  bluer  than  any  eyes  could  ever  be 
except  in  contrast  with  that  ruddy  countenance,  his 
teeth  so  white  that  you  found  yourself  watching  for  his 
smile  that  was  so  gently  sweet  and  childlike.  Oh,  when 
Oscar  put  on  his  black  pants  and  issued  invitations  for 
a  musical  evening  one  was  sure  to  find  his  cabin  packed. 
Eight  did  it,  with  squeezing. 

This,  then,  was  the  atmosphere  in  which  Fanny  Bran- 
deis  found  herself.  As  far  from  Haynes-Cooper  as 
anything  could  be.  At  the  end  of  the  first  week  she 
found  herself  able  to  think  clearly  and  unemotionally 
about  Theodore,  and  about  Fenger.  She  had  even 
evolved  a  certain  rather  crude  philosophy  out  of  the 


314  FANNY   HERSELF 

ruins  that  had  tumbled  about  her  ears.  It  was  so 
crude,  so  unformed  in  her  mind  that  it  can  hardly  be 
set  down.  To  justify  one's  own  existence.  That  was 
all  that  life  held  or  meant.  But  that  included  all  the 
lives  that  touched  on  yours.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with 
success,  as  she  had  counted  success  heretofore.  It  was 
service,  really.  It  was  living  as — well,  as  Molly  Bran- 
deis  had  lived,  helpfully,  self-effacingly,  magnificently. 
Fanny  gave  up  trying  to  form  the  thing  that  was  grow- 
ing in  her  mind.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  too  soon  to 
expect  a  complete  understanding  of  that  which  had 
worked  this  change  in  her  from  that  afternoon  in  Fen- 
ger's  library. 

After  the  first  few  days  she  found  less  and  less  diffi- 
culty in  climbing.  Her  astonished  heart  and  lungs 
ceased  to  object  so  strenuously  to  the  unaccustomed 
work.  The  Cabin  Rock  trail,  for  example,  whose  sum- 
mit found  her  panting  and  exhausted  at  first,  now 
seemed  a  mere  stroll.  She  grew  more  daring  and  am- 
bitious. One  day  she  climbed  the  Long's  Peak  trail  to 
timberline,  and  had  tea  at  Timberline  Cabin  with  Al- 
bert Edward  Cobbins.  Albert  Edward  Cobbins,  Eng- 
lishman, erstwhile  sailor,  adventurer  and  gentleman, 
was  the  keeper  of  Timberline  Cabin,  and  the  loneliest 
man  in  the  Rockies.  It  was  his  duty  to  house  over- 
night climbers  bound  for  the  Peak,  sunrise  parties  and 
sunset  parties,  all  too  few  now  in  the  chill  October 
season-end.  Fanny  was  his  first  visitor  in  three  days. 
He  was  pathetically  glad  to  see  her. 

"I'll  have  tea  for  you,"  he  said,  "in  a  jiiFy.  And  I 
baked  a  pan  of  French  rolls  ten  minutes  ago.  I  had  a 
feeling." 

A  magnificent  specimen  of  a  man,  over  six  feet  tall, 
slim,  broad-shouldered,  long-headed,  and  scrubbed- 
looking  as  only  an  Englishman  can  be,  there  was  some- 
thing almost  pathetic  in  the  sight  of  him  bustling  about 
the  rickety  little  kitchen  stove. 


FANNY   HERSELF  815 

**To-morrow,"  said  Fanny,  over  her  tea,  "I'm  going 
to  get  an  early  start,  reach  here  by  noon,  and  go  on  to 
Boulder  Field  and  maybe  Keyhole." 

"Better,  not.  Miss.  Not  in  October,  when  there's 
likely  to  be  a  snowstorm  up  there  in  a  minute's  notice." 

"You'd  come  and  find  me,  wouldn't  you.?  They  al- 
ways do,  in  the  books." 

"Books  are  all  very  well.  Miss.  But  I'm  not  a  moun- 
tain man.  The  truth  is  I  don't  know  my  way  fifty  feet 
from  this  cabin.  I  got  the  job  because  I'm  used  to 
loneliness,  and  don't  mind  it,  and  because  I  can  cook, 
d'you  see,  having  shipped  as  cook  for  years.  But  I'm 
a  seafaring  man.  Miss.  I  wouldn't  advise  it,  Miss. 
Another  cup  of  tea.'^" 

But  Long's  Peak,  king  of  the  range,  had  fascinated 
her  from  the  first.  She  knew  that  the  climb  to  the 
summit  would  be  impossible  for  her  now,  but  she  had 
an  overwhelming  desire  to  see  the  terrifying  bulk  of  it 
from  a  point  midway  of  the  range.  It  beckoned  her 
and  intrigued  her,  as  the  difficult  always  did. 

By  noon  of  the  following  day  she  had  left  Albert  Ed- 
ward's cabin  (he  stood  looking  after  her  in  the  door- 
way until  she  disappeared  around  the  bend)  and  was 
jauntily  following  the  trail  that  led  to  Boulder  Field, 
that  sea  of  jagged  rock  a  mile  across.  Soon  she  had 
left  the  tortured,  wind-twisted  timberline  trees  far  be- 
hind. How  pitiful  Cabin  Rock  and  Twin  Sisters  looked 
compared  to  this.  She  climbed  easily  and  steadily, 
stopping  for  brief  rests.  Early  in  the  week  she  had 
ridden  down  to  the  village,  where  she  had  bought  climb- 
ing breeches  and  stout  leggings.  She  laughed  at  Albert 
Edward  and  his  fears.  By  one  o'clock  she  had  reached 
Boulder  Field.  She  found  the  rocks  glazed  with  ice. 
Just  over  Keyhole,  that  freakish  vent  in  a  wall  of  rock, 
the  blue  of  the  sky  had  changed  to  the  gray  of  snow- 
clouds.  Tenderfoot  though  she  was,  she  knew  that  the 
climb  over  Boulder  Field  would  be  perilous,  if  not  im- 


316  FANNY   HERSELF 

possible.  She  went  on,  from  rock  to  rock,  for  half 
an  hour,  then  decided  to  turn  back.  A  clap  of  thun- 
der, that  roared  and  crashed,  and  cracked  up  and  down 
the  canyons  and  over  the  peaks,  hastened  her  decision. 
She  looked  about  her.  Peak  on  peak.  Purple  and 
black  and  yellow  masses,  fantastic  in  their  hugeness. 
Chasms.  Canyons.  Pyramids  and  minarets.  And  so 
near.  So  grim.  So  ghastly  desolate.  And  yet  so 
threatening.  And  then  Fanny  Brandeis  was  seized  with 
mountain  terror.  It  is  a  disease  recognized  by  moun- 
tain men  everywhere,  and  it  is  panic,  pure  and  simple. 
It  is  fear  brought  on  by  the  immensity  and  the  silence 
of  the  mountains.  A  great  horror  of  the  vastness  and 
ruggedness  came  upon  her.  It  was  colossal,  it  was 
crushing,  it  was  nauseating. 

She  began  to  run.  A  mistake,  that,  when  one  is  fol- 
lowing a  mountain  trail,  at  best  an  elusive  thing.  In 
five  minutes  she  had  lost  the  trail.  She  stopped,  and 
scolded  herself  sternly,  and  looked  about  her.  She  saw 
the  faint  trail  line  again,  or  thought  she  saw  it,  and 
made  toward  it,  and  found  it  to  be  no  trail  at  all.  She 
knew  that  she  must  be  not  more  than  an  hour's  walk 
from  Timberline  Cabin,  and  Albert  Edward,  and  his 
biscuits  and  tea.  Why  be  frightened.''  It  was  absurd. 
But  she  was  frightened,  horribly,  harrowingly.  The 
great,  grim  rock  masses  seemed  to  be  shaking  with 
silent  laughter.  She  began  to  run  again.  She  was 
very  cold,  and  a  piercing  wind  had  sprung  up.  She 
kept  on  walking,  doggedly,  reasoning  with  herself  quite 
calmly,  and  proud  of  her  calmness.  Which  proves 
how  terrified  she  really  was.  Then  the  snow  came,  not 
slowly,  not  gradually,  but  a  blanket  of  it,  as  it  does 
come  in  the  mountains,  shutting  off  everything.  And 
suddenly  Fanny's  terror  vanished.  She  felt  quite  free 
from  weariness.  She  was  alive  and  tingling  to  her 
fingertips.  The  psychology  of  fear  is  a  fascinating 
thing.    Fanny  had  reached  the  second  stage.    She  was 


FANNY   HERSELF  817 

quite  taken  out  of  herself.  She  forgot  her  stone- 
bruised  feet.  She  was  no  longer  conscious  of  cold.  She 
ran  now,  fleetly,  lightly,  the  ground  seeming  to  spur 
her  on.  She  had  given  up  the  trail  completely  now. 
She  told  herself  that  if  she  ran  on,  down,  down,  down, 
she  must  come  to  the  valley  sometime.  Unless  she  was 
turned  about,  and  headed  in  the  direction  of  one  of 
those  hideous  chasms.  She  stopped  a  moment,  peering 
through  the  snow  curtain,  but  she  could  see  nothing. 
She  ran  on  lightly,  laughing  a  little.  Then  her  feet  met 
a  projection,  she  stumbled,  and  fell  flat  over  a  slab 
of  wood  that  jutted  out  of  the  ground.  She  lay  there  a 
moment,  dazed.  Then  she  sat  up,  and  bent  down  to 
look  at  this  thing  that  had  tripped  her.  Probably  a 
tree  trunk.  Then  she  must  be  near  timberline.  She 
bent  closer.  It  was  a  rough  wooden  slab.  Closer  still. 
There  were  words  carved  on  it.  She  lay  flat  and  man- 
aged to  make  them  out  painfully. 

"Here  lies  Sarah  Cannon.  Lay  to  rest,  and  died 
alone,  April  26,  1893." 

Fanny  had  heard  the  story  of  Sarah  Cannon,  a  stern 
spinster  who  had  achieved  the  climb  to  the  Peak,  and 
who  had  met  with  mishap  on  the  down  trail.  Her  guide 
had  left  her  to  go  for  help.  When  the  relief  party  re- 
turned, hours  later,  they  had  found  her  dead. 

Fanny  sprang  up,  filled  with  a  furious  energy.  She 
felt  strangely  light  and  clear-headed.  She  ran  on, 
stopped,  ran  again.  Now  she  was  making  little  short 
runs  here  and  there.  It  was  snowing  furiously,  vin- 
dictively. It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  running 
for  hours.  It  probably  was  minutes.  Suddenly  she 
sank  down,  got  to  her  feet  again,  stumbled  on  perhaps 
a  dozen  paces,  and  sank  down  again.  It  was  as  though 
her  knees  had  turned  liquid.  She  lay  there,  with  her 
eyes  shut. 

"I'm  just  resting,"  she  told  herself.  "In  a  minute 
I'll  go  on.    In  a  minute.    After  I've  rested." 


^ 


318  FANNY   HERSELF 

"Hallo-o-o-o !"  from  somewhere  on  the  other  side  of 
the  snow  blanket.    "Hallo-o-o-o !" 

Fanny  sat  up,  helloing  shrilly,  hysterically.  She  got 
to  her  feet,  staggeringly.  And  Clarence  Heyl  walked 
toward  her. 

"You  ought  to  be  spanked  for  this,"  he  said. 

Fanny  began  to  cry  weakly.  She  felt  no  curiosity 
as  to  his  being  there.  She  wasn't  at  all  sure  that  he 
actually  was  there,  for  that  matter.  At  that  thought 
she  dug  a  frantic  hand  into  his  arm.  He  seemed  to 
understand,  for  he  said,  "It's  all  right.  I'm  real 
enough.    Can  you  walk?" 

"Yes."  But  she  tried  it  and  found  she  could  not. 
She  decided  she  was  too  tired  to  care.  "I  stumbled 
over  a  thing — a  horrible  thing — a  gravestone.  And  I 
must  have  hurt  my  leg.    I  didn't  know " 

She  leaned  against  him,  a  dead  weight.  "Tell  you 
what,"  said  Heyl,  cheerfully.  "You  wait  here.  I'll  go 
on  down  to  Timberline  Cabin  for  help,  and  come  back." 

"You  couldn't  manage  it — alone.''  If  I  tried?  If  I 
tried  to  walk?" 

"Oh,  impossible."  His  tone  was  brisk.  "Now  you 
sit  right  down  here."  She  sank  down  obediently.  She 
felt  a  little  sorry  for  herself,  and  glad,  too,  and  queer, 
and  not  at  all  cold.  She  looked  up  at  him  dumbly.  He 
was  smiling.     "All  right?" 

She  nodded.  He  turned  abruptly.  The  snow  hid 
him  from  sight  at  once. 

"Here  lies  Sarah  Cannon.  Lay  to  rest  and  died 
alone,  April  26,  1893." 

She  sank  down,  and  pillowed  her  head  on  her  arms. 
She  knew  that  this  was  the  end.  She  was  very  drowsy, 
and  not  at  all  sad.    Happy,  if  anything. 

"You  didn't  really  think  I'd  leave  you,  did  you. 
Fan?" 

She  opened  her  eyes.  Heyl  was  there.  He  reached 
down,  and  lifted  her  lightly  to  her  feet.     "Timberline 


FANNY   HERSELF  319 

Cabin's  not  a  hundred  yards  away.  I  just  did  it  to  try 
you." 

She  had  spirit  enough  left  to  say,  *'Beast." 

Then  he  swung  her  up,  and  carried  her  down  the 
trail.  He  carried  her,  not  in  his  arms,  as  they  do  it 
in  books  and  in  the  movies.  He  could  not  have  gone  a 
hundred  feet  that  way.  He  carried  her  over  his  shoul- 
der, like  a  sack  of  meal,  by  one  arm  and  one  leg,  I  re- 
gret to  say.  Any  boy  scout  knows  that  trick,  and  will 
tell  you  what  I  mean.  It  is  the  most  effectual  carrying 
method  known,  though  unromantic. 

And  so  they  came  to  Timberline  Cabin,  and  Albert 
Edward  Cobbins  was  in  the  doorway.  Heyl  put  her 
down  gently  on  the  bench  that  ran  alongside  the  table. 
The  hospitable  table  that  bore  two  smoking  cups  of 
tea.  Fanny's  lips  were  cracked,  and  the  skin  was 
peeled  from  her  nose,  and  her  hair  was  straggling  and 
her  eyes  red-rimmed.  She  drank  the  tea  in  great 
gulps.  And  then  she  went  into  the  tiny  bunkroom, 
and  tumbled  into  one  of  the  shelf-bunks,  and  slept. 

When  she  awoke  she  sat  up  in  terror,  and  bumped 
her  head  against  the  bunk  above,  and  called,  "Clancy !" 

"Yep!"  from  the  next  room.  He  came  to  the  door. 
The  acrid  smell  of  their  pipes  was  incense  in  her  nos- 
trils.    "Rested.?" 

"What  time  is  it.?" 

"Seven  o'clock.    Dinner  time.     Ham  and  eggs.'' 

She  got  up  stiffly,  and  bathed  her  roughened  face, 
and  produced  a  powder  pad  (they  carry  them  in  the 
face  of  danger,  death,  and  dissolution)  and  dusted  it 
over  her  scaly  nose.  She  did  her  hair — her  vigorous, 
abundant  hair  that  shone  in  the  lamplight,  pulled  down 
her  blouse,  surveyed  her  torn  shoes  ruefully,  donned 
the  khaki  skirt  that  Albert  Edward  had  magically  pro- 
duced from  somewhere  to  take  the  place  of  her  breeches. 
She  dusted  her  shoes  with  a  bit  of  rag,  regarded  herself 
steadily  in  the  wavering  mirror,  and  went  in. 


320  FANNY   HERSELF 

The  two  men  were  talking  quietly.  Albert  Edward 
was  moving  deftly  from  stove  to  table.  They  both 
looked  up  as  she  came  in,  and  she  looked  at  Heyl.  Their 
eyes  held. 

Albert  Edward  was  as  sporting  a  gentleman  as  the 
late  dear  king  whose  name  he  bore.  He  went  out  to 
tend  Heyl's  horse,  he  said.  It  was  little  he  knew  of 
horses,  and  he  rather  feared  them,  as  does  a  sailing 
man.     But  he  went,  nevertheless. 

Heyl  still  looked  at  Fanny,  and  Fanny  at  him. 

"It's  absurd,"  said  Fanny.  "It's  the  kind  of  thing 
that  doesn't  happen." 

"It's  simple  enough,  really,"  he  answered.  "I  saw 
Ella  Monahan  in  Chicago,  and  she  told  mc  all  she  knew, 
and  something  of  what  she  had  guessed.  I  waited  a  few 
days  and  came  back.  I  had  to."  He  smiled.  "A  pretty 
job  you've  made  of  trying  to  be  selfish." 

At  that  she  smiled,  too,  pitifully  enough,  for  her 
lower  lip  trembled.  She  caught  it  between  her  teeth  in 
a  last  sharp  effort  at  self-control.  "Don't!"  she  qua- 
vered. And  then,  in  a  panic,  her  two  hands  came  up 
in  a  vain  effort  to  hide  the  tears.  She  sank  down  on 
the  rough  bench  by  the  table,  and  the  proud  head  came 
down  on  her  arms  so  that  there  was  a  little  clatter  and 
tinkle  among  the  supper  things  spread  on  the  table. 
Then  quiet. 

Clarence  Heyl  stared.  He  stared,  helplessly,  as  does 
a  man  who  has  never,  in  all  his  life,  been  called  upon 
to  comfort  a  woman  in  tears.  Then  instinct  came  to 
his  rescue.  He  made  her  side  of  the  table  in  two  strides 
(your  favorite  film  star  couldn't  have  done  it  better), 
put  his  two  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  neatly  shifted 
the  bowed  head  from  the  cold,  hard  surface  of  the  table 
top  to  the  warm,  rough,  tobacco-scented  comfort  of 
his  coat.  It  rested  there  quite  naturally.  Just  as  nat- 
urally Fanny's  arm  crept  up,  and  about  his  neck.  So 
they  remained  for  a  moment,  until  he  bent  so  that  his» 


FANNY   HERSELF  821 

lips  touched  her  hair.  Her  head  came  up  at  that, 
sharply,  so  that  it  bumped  his  chin.  They  both 
laughed,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes,  but  at  what 
they  saw  there  they  stopped  laughing  and  were  serious. 

"Dear,"  said  Heyl.  "Dearest."  The  lids  drooped 
over  Fanny's  eyes.  "Look  at  me,"  said  Heyl.  So  she 
tried  to  lift  them  again,  bravely,  and  could  not.  At 
that  he  bent  his  head  and  kissed  Fanny  Brandeis  in  the 
way  a  woman  wants  to  be  kissed  for  the  first  time  by 
the  man  she  loves.  It  hurt  her  lips,  that  kiss,  and  her 
teeth,  and  the  back  of  her  neck,  and  it  left  her  breath- 
less, and  set  things  whirling.  When  she  opened  her 
eyes  (they  shut  them  at  such  times)  he  kissed  her 
again,  very  tenderly,  this  time,  and  lightly,  and  reas- 
suringly. She  returned  that  kiss,  and,  strangely 
enough,  it  was  the  one  that  stayed  in  her  memory  long, 
long  after  the  other  had  faded. 

"Oh,  Clancy,  I've  made  such  a  mess  of  it  all.  SucK 
a  miserable  mess.  The  little  girl  in  the  red  tarn  was 
worth  ten  of  me.  I  don't  see  how  you  can — care  for 
me." 

"You're  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  world," 
said  Heyl,  "and  the  most  beautiful  and  splendid." 

He  must  have  meant  it,  for  he  was  looking  down  at 
her  as  he  said  it,  and  we  know  that  the  skin  had  been 
peeled  off  her  nose  by  the  mountain  winds  and  sun,  that 
her  lips  were  cracked  and  her  cheeks  rough,  and  that 
she  was  red-eyed  and  worn-looking.  And  she  must  have 
believed  him,  for  she  brought  his  cheek  down  to  hers 
with  such  a  sigh  of  content,  though  she  said,  "But  are 
we  at  all  suited  to  each  other?" 

"Probably  not,"  Heyl  answered,  briskly.  "That's 
why  we're  going  to  be  so  terrifically  happy.  Some  day 
I'll  be  passing  the  Singer  building,  and  I'll  glance  up 
at  it  and  think  how  pitiful  it  would  look  next  to  Long's 
Peak.  And  then  I'll  be  off,  probably,  to  these  moun- 
tains,'* 


822  FANNY   HERSELF 

"Or  some  day,"  Fanny  returned,  "we^ll  be  up  here, 
and  I'll  remember,  suddenly,  how  Fifth  Avenue  looks 
on  a  bright  afternoon  between  four  and  five.  And  I'll 
be  off,  probably,  to  the  Grand  Central  station." 

And  then  began  one  of  those  beautiful  and  foolish 
conversations  which  all  lovers  have  whose  love  has  been 
a  sure  and  steady  growth.  Thus:  "When  did  you 
first  begin  to  care,"  etc.  And,  "That  day  we  spent  at 
the  dunes,  and  you  said  so  and  so,  did  you  mean  this 
and  that?" 

Albert  Edward  Cobbins  announced  his  approach  by 
terrific  stampings  and  scufflings,  ostensibly  for  the  pur- 
pose of  ridding  his  boots  of  snow.  He  entered  looking 
casual,  and  very  nipped. 

"You're  here  for  the  night,"  he  said.  "A  regular 
blizzard.  The  greatest  piece  of  luck  I've  had  in  a 
month."  He  busied  himself  with  the  ham  and  eggs  and 
the  teapot.     "Hungry.'"' 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Fanny  and  Heyl,  together. 

"H'm,"  said  Albert  Edward,  and  broke  six  eggs  into 
the  frying  pan  just  the  same. 

After  supper  they  aided  Albert  Edward  in  the  proc- 
ess of  washing  up.  When  everything  was  tidy  he  light- 
ed his  most  malignant  pipe  and  told  them  seafaring 
yarns  not  necessarily  true.  Then  he  knocked  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe  and  fell  asleep  there  by  the  fire,  effacing 
himself  as  effectually  as  one  of  three  people  can  in  a 
single  room.  They  talked ;  low-toned  murmurings  that 
they  seemed  to  find  exquisitely  meaningful  or  witty,  by 
turn.  Fanny,  rubbing  a  forefinger  (his)  along  her 
weather-roughened  nose,  would  say,  "At  least  you've 
seen  me  at  my  worst.'* 

Or  he,  mock  serious:  "I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  I'm  the  kind  of  man  who  throws  wet  towels  into 
the  laundry  hamper." 

But  there  was  no  mirth  in  Fanny's  voice  when  she 
said,  "Dear,  do  you  think  Lasker  will  give  me  that  job.'' 


FANNY   HERSELF  82S 

You  know  he  said,  *When  you  want  a  job,  come  back/ 
Do  you  think  he  meant  it?" 

"Lasker  always  means  it." 

"But,"  fearfully,  and  shyly,  too,  "you  don't  think 
I  may  have  lost  my  drawing  hand  and  my  seeing  eye, 
do  you?    As  punishment?" 

"I  do  not.  I  think  you've  just  found  them,  for 
keeps.  There  wasn't  a  woman  cartoonist  in  the  coun- 
try— or  man,  either,  for  that  matter — could  touch  you 
two  years  ago.  In  two  more  I'll  be  just  Fanny  Bran- 
deis'  husband,  that's  all." 

They  laughed  together  at  that,  so  that  Albert  Ed- 
ward Cobbins  awoke  with  a  start  and  tried  to  look  as  if 
he  had  not  been  asleep,  and  failing,  smiled  benignly  and 
drowsily  upon  them. 


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